


Love Knows Not Its Own Depth

by wendymr



Series: Love Knows Not... [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 20:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.</i><br/>- Kahlil Gibran 1883-1931</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Missing Person

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to lindenharp for beta-reading.

Robbie pushes open the door to his shared office, already shaking his head in mock-exasperation. “Did you even go home last night?”

The office is empty. A glance at James’s desk shows him his sergeant’s computer is turned off, and the desk’s tidied as well, as it usually is when James leaves.

But James’s car is outside, parked in the same place as it was yesterday evening when Robbie left at around half-six – further away from the door than James usually prefers, but it was the only available space when they’d got back from interviewing a witness. Bit much of a coincidence that he’d have chosen to park there again, surely?

Nah. He’s obviously just gone out for breakfast after working all night, which means he’ll be back any minute. At which point Robbie will send him off home to sleep, after giving him a bollocking for staying overnight again – after all, they’ve got nothing on right now to justify that kind of effort and he can do without his sergeant wearing himself out for no reason.

Robbie shakes his head and goes in search of a coffee – yet another reason to be pissed off at James, since he isn’t around to get it for him.

 

***

Forty-five minutes later, there’s still no sign of James, and no messages on Robbie’s mobile – either voicemail or text. He’s called the duty sergeant and Dispatch: nothing. He’s keeping it low-key, though; no point letting Innocent know anything she doesn’t need to, after all.

This isn’t at all like Hathaway, and Robbie’s finding it difficult to concentrate on work, though he’s got enough of it on his desk. Case reports, cold cases Innocent wants the two of them to take a look at, performance reviews for his team, requests for information from other detectives and other forces – plenty to keep him busy and plenty that he’d normally be handing off to his sergeant, if said sergeant were actually where he should be. 

Where the hell is he?

Robbie’s called James’s mobile several times now, and left messages the first couple of times. It’s just ringing out, though, and that’s unusual too. He tried the bloke’s home phone, in case James had decided he was too tired to drive whenever it was he left last night and left his car here. No answer there either.

By ten to ten, he’s given up pretending to work and has sent a uniform car to Hathaway’s flat, and he paces his office until the PC reports in. No sign of Hathaway, and a neighbour reports not having seen him since yesterday morning. The same neighbour apparently is used to hearing sounds in the evening – music, general movement around the flat (clearly either she has very acute hearing or the walls are paper-thin) but heard nothing at all last night or this morning.

Sod it. Robbie calls IT and puts a trace on James’s phone.

Two minutes later, Innocent appears in his office doorway. “When exactly were you going to tell me that Sergeant Hathaway is missing?”

“I can’t be certain that he’s missing, Ma’am,” he points out, but he’s frowning and rubbing his face. 

“But he hasn’t turned up for work, isn’t answering his phone and there’s no sign of him at his flat. Correct?”

Robbie raises an eyebrow. “You’re very well-informed, Ma’am.” 

Innocent just stops short of an impatient eye-roll, though her tone is tart as she responds. “It’s my job to be, especially where one of my officers is concerned. Now, what else have you done besides running a trace on his mobile?”

He exhales loudly. After all this time, doesn’t she trust him? James is his partner. Doesn’t she realise that he’ll be doing everything possible to find him? At the same time, he can’t over-react. “Nothing yet. Was waiting to see what turned up on his phone. If that’s a dead end too, I’ll put out an alert to all officers.”

Innocent nods. “Fine. Let me know if you hear anything, all right?” This time, he can hear the genuine concern in her voice, and he responds to it, letting his defensiveness drop.

“Will do, Ma’am.” Robbie’s phone starts ringing, and he’s already reaching for it. “Thanks.”

“We both know James,” she says, stalling Robbie as he’s about to answer. “This isn’t like him.”

“No, it’s not.” Which is why he’s so willing to treat this as a missing person case this soon. He picks up the phone. “Lewis.”

His gut’s churning by the time he replaces the receiver, though he manages to thank the tech before doing so. “Damnit!” he exclaims as his fist connects with the wall.

“Robbie?”

“They found his phone – in a bin.”

“Where?” Innocent’s tone is sharp.

“On the street, not ten yards from this place.” Right on their own doorstep. And if that’s not deliberate he’ll eat the mortarboard Hathaway no doubt has somewhere in his flat. “The ringer was muted.”

“Someone’s been clever.” Innocent’s worried too now. Damn! If only he’d done this sooner... But, no, they’ve got no idea what time Hathaway disappeared, so an hour or so probably wouldn’t have made any difference. “All right. I’ll raise the alarm with all units across the city – and the county, too. Robbie, get the CCTV checked and phone around the hospitals. Oh, and if you can supply a description of what James was wearing yesterday, that might help.”

“Right, Ma’am. Though we’ll get that off CCTV from earlier yesterday.” As another thought occurs to him, he adds, “I’ll get back onto IT, too; find out what time he logged off last night.”

Innocent nods. “Get onto it. And keep me updated. Find him, Robbie.”

 

***

An hour later, they’re little further forward. Robbie’s coordinating from his office, even though every instinct he possesses wants to be out hunting James down. He’s of most use here, he knows that.

SOCO’s been all over the bin where James’s phone was found, and they’re still waiting for a forensic report. IT recorded that James logged off his computer at 10:34 yesterday evening – not an all-nighter, but still considerably later than he should have been – and CCTV showed him leaving the station five minutes later. He stopped outside for a cigarette, and it looks as if he might have spoken to someone in the car park – and then the recording shows him moving to the left and off-camera. So far, there’s been no other sighting of him on CCTV anywhere in the city, though officers are still reviewing tape.

Descriptions and photos, as well as his warrant card number, have been distributed throughout the county, and Innocent’s getting ready to contact neighbouring forces as well. There’s no evidence so far of foul play, but the way the phone appears to have been dumped doesn’t suggest that Hathaway’s disappearance is his own doing. Still a faint possibility that it could be. He might have dropped it, Robbie reasons. He might have muted the ringer by accident, or deliberately switched it to vibrate if he was somewhere that a ringing phone wouldn’t have been appreciated – it’s not as if they never have to do that.

This doesn’t have to be a crime, or a suspicious disappearance. Not everything out of the ordinary is automatically cause for concern. Precautions are all well and good, but it’s still true that James could come strolling into the station any minute, wondering what all the fuss is about. Or so he’s trying to tell himself. But he knows he’s clutching at straws. 

Robbie’s had one of the constables check all the hospitals, which has yielded one bit of relief: nothing. No-one brought in answering James’s description. Though right now part of him would be ecstatic if James were recovering in hospital: at least he’d know where his sergeant is. Not like this uncertainty – this growing fear that James might have been kidnapped, might be being held captive by someone with a grudge against him, or even just against the police.

And now he’s having to restrain himself from shouting at everyone within hearing distance, asking how one grown man – and a trained police detective at that – could just disappear without a trace in a day and age where communication is instantaneous and practically everything’s covered by CCTV. Instead, he counts to ten and then stands in the door of his office, looking out at the busy incident room.

“Hasn’t anyone got anything on the CCTV yet?”

He knows he’s being unfair – there are hours of footage to go through from all over the city. Night-time footage, too, and it has to be viewed frame by frame to ensure that there’s no chance of missing anything. But time’s ticking away, and in any missing person case time is of the essence. If this is an abduction, and there’s been no message, no demand, then whoever’s taken James is probably not looking to negotiate. Which means they need to find him before... 

_No._

_Not_ before he’s badly hurt. Because Robbie, and the whole of Oxfordshire Police, won’t let that happen.

“Still looking, sir.” Julie’s the only DC brave enough to make eye contact, and he acknowledges her courage by nodding at her.

“Thanks, Julie. Keep working, all of you.”

He goes back to his desk and watches the tape of James smoking outside the station again, wishing he had Hathaway’s skills with the video software so he could slow it down, zoom in on parts of the picture and somehow manage to find those tiny clues that James so often pulls out of this kind of film. But if there’d been anything there to find, he reminds himself, the techs who’ve already been over this would have found it already.

He pauses the film and sits, focused on the image of his sergeant with the ubiquitous cigarette held to his lips. “James, lad, where are you?”

 

***

A tap on his door makes him look up. It’s Hooper, and Lewis already knows what he’s going to say by the look on his face.

Up until this moment, he’s not allowed himself to dwell on that possibility. Abducted, yes; held hostage, perhaps; beaten up and dumped somewhere in revenge for something or as a warning to the police, quite possibly. He’s run through every one of those scenarios in his head over and over. Not good, none of them, but just about bearable as long as they can find him.

Here and there over the past half-hour, he’s been trying to focus on the best-case scenario – clutching at shreds of evidence that might make it halfway credible. James could be chasing a lead, maybe, and just lost track of time. Though that doesn’t explain Hathaway’s car still outside, even if losing his phone was accidental – which he’s already concluded is unlikely. Met some friends, went for a few drinks, still sleeping it off on someone’s couch, maybe – except he doesn’t really seem to have friends. Spent the night with a woman and still in bed? But he doesn’t do that, either. The only times he has, though, it’s ended up in trouble. Trouble or not, that’s what Robbie’s been hoping for.

Not this.

“No,” he whispers, even as he gestures to Hooper to get on with it.

“A uniformed patrol just called in, sir.” Hooper’s voice is only barely steady. “They say they’ve found Sergeant Hathaway’s body.”

For a moment, he struggles to breathe. Something exerting the pressure of a vice is pressing against his chest. “Where?” he manages at last, getting to his feet.

“Canalside, out near Binsey. There’s a track and a clump of trees near the boathouse. They were out there looking for a stolen car – there was a report that there might’ve been a vehicle abandoned down the lane. They nearly didn’t see him at first ‘cause of the trees.”

Robbie’s already pushing past Hooper. “SOCO on the way?”

“They’re still at another incident, and so’s the pathologist, sir.” Hooper’s jogging along behind him. “They’ll be there soon as they can.”

Robbie glances back. He’s going to need someone to tag along. “Right, you’re with me. Get a move on.”

He runs down the stairs, shoving past anyone who has the temerity to get in his way, not stopping even as Innocent appears at the banister and calls his name. He barely waits for Hooper to close the car door before starting the engine.

“By the canal?” he questions, hands clenched around the steering-wheel. “How the hell did that happen?”

“They thought it might’ve been an accident, sir. Fell and hit his head.”

Doesn’t make sense. What the hell would Hathaway have been doing out at Binsey? Without his car? Though maybe he was with some other people. There’s the Trout along the towpath near there, though not by the sound of it all that close to where James was found. Maybe they were at the Perch? It’s not right on the canal, but it’s within walking distance. Close to a boathouse, too, if it’s the same boathouse Hooper mentioned.

God. He’s always known, in this job – they all do – that something like this could happen at any time, but why now? Why James? Damn it, first Morse, then Val, and now... 

_Concentrate on the job_. He’s on the Botley Road now, just past the railway station. He floors the Insignia’s accelerator, flicking on the siren.

He’ll have to notify James’s family. 

Wait. What family? James never talks about family, except one time when he mentioned an aunt, but she died, didn’t she? Motor neurone disease, that’s right. Sounded like it was a long time ago, too. The only time James did mention his parents was a couple of years back when they were on the Crevecoeur investigation, and it was very clear that he’d have preferred not to explain his connection to the estate. Beyond saying that his father was the estate manager, he’d said nothing else. And didn’t he say something about miserable childhoods that same day? He’d been talking about Zelinsky, but the implication was clear. His own hadn’t been a picnic. And ever since finding out the truth about that marquess Robbie has wondered...

Are James’s parents dead? If not dead, then estranged. After all, that time he ended up in hospital the admissions clerk had commented on the lack of next of kin in his health records.

If his parents are dead, then who is there? 

There’s him. That’s about it, isn’t it? Hell. It’s gonna be like Morse all over again; by the time Morse died, his half-sister and her family’d moved halfway around the world, trying to escape their grief over the daughter who overdosed. There’d been only him and DCS Strange to see to the arrangements. No funeral then, at Morse’s express wishes, but only two years after that he’d had to arrange Val’s.

And now, assuming no next of kin can be found for Hathaway, he’s going to have to arrange another funeral. A Catholic one, at that, and what does he know about Catholics? Only what James has told him, or implied: about confessions and sin and guilt and, he thinks, James’s estrangement from the faith.

Better him than some stranger, or someone James wasn’t close to, though. ‘Cause if he never mentioned family, if he never took time off to see relations, never had family Christmases or anything like that, there had to be a reason for it, didn’t there? 

Still, it’s not right. Not right at all that a lovely bloke like him had no-one at all to care about him. Well, no-one except the people who worked with him... 

There’s the turnoff, the track leading past the Perch and on to the canal. And, at the end, a parked squad car and two uniforms standing next to it, looking nervous.

He pauses only long enough to find out exactly where Hathaway is, leaving Hooper to question them. He follows the trail away from the boathouse and towards the stand of trees indicated by the uniformed constable. This is definitely not a simple accident, not judging by the pressure-patterns in the grass and the broken branches. There was more than one person here recently, probably in the last few hours. Unless, of course...

“You didn’t disturb anything here?” He glances back, glaring at the two constables and gesturing at the grass.

“No, sir,” they both say, falling over themselves to reassure him. Though of course they’re lying. They practically stumbled over James’s body, or so Hooper told him, so of course they walked along this way.

He just nods. Then, past the next tree, he halts. Fabric – the light grey suit Hathaway was wearing yesterday. He’s there, crumpled on the ground, mostly on his side, with blood pooled under his ear. His blond hair’s matted and dirty with blood, a stark contrast to James’s normal fastidious neatness. There’s also bruising around his neck – strangulation, on top of the head injury. James’s face, in death, is even paler than usual, and he looks wretched, the anguish of struggling for breath, fighting for his life but recognising the inevitability of death, written all over his expression and in the defensive state of his fingers. 

Robbie has to pause for a moment. His breathing’s all wrong. 

The expression on James’s face... God, it reminds him. Just a couple of weeks ago, wasn’t it? It was that case involving MI5 and Zoe Suskin, and James was sick with arsenic poisoning, and he kept needling the lad. Telling him he was too intelligent, going on at him about being brainy and a child prodigy, as if there were something wrong with it. As if James could help it. And that’s how he looked. Hurt but resigned at the same time, as though he knew he couldn’t expect anything better.

_James, do you never think you could be too clever for your own good?_

Why’d he have to be so mean to the bloke? It was just... unnecessary. Cruel. It’s not as if he doesn’t know that James gets it – got it – from some of the rest of the team, including Hooper, but he’s never been like that himself. Never told the others off for it either, though, other than Hooper that once. And there he made himself just as bad as them. Worse, because James had a right to expect better from him.

Too late to make up for it now. Too late, too bloody... 

James’s face has gone out of focus. Blurry, for some reason. Must’ve got something in his eye.

Robbie closes his eyes for a moment, then he makes himself crouch down and examine his partner’s body, taking care not to touch James or to disturb any potential evidence on or near the body. It’s only then he realises he’s not wearing a scene suit. Laura’ll have his head for this. But he’s not going back to the car for one now.

Cuts and bruises to the face – not from vegetation, that’s obvious. The necklace-style bruising around his neck, clearly from some sort of knobbly ligature. His wrist’s at an unnatural angle: broken, obviously, in the struggle. And then there’s the blood. 

This wasn’t an accident. And Hathaway wasn’t on his own here. This is a murder investigation.

“Who killed you, lad?” he murmurs, his voice sounding unfamiliar to him. “What were you doin’ all the way out here? Why didn’t you tell me-?” He breaks off; there’s an obstruction in his throat. “Ah, James, why’d you have to go and get yourself-?”

Taking a shuddering breath, Robbie reaches into his pocket for his gloves. This is a crime scene, and he has a job to do – no matter that this is his sergeant, the man who’s become his best mate over the past few years. He’s going to do his job, and it’ll be the best damn investigation of his life. He’ll find out who killed James and put them away – and then that’ll be it for him. He’ll do as Lyn wants and retire.

_If you go, I go._

Hathaway had it right. He won’t be carrying on with this job, not without James. How could he possibly work with anyone else?

And Laura was right, too, wasn’t she? Can’t expect people to know how you feel unless you tell them – and he never did. James did, though. He took that risk. The least Robbie could have done was reciprocate, instead of just staring at the bloke and then changing the subject.

Too late now.

Story of his life. He was too late to tell Morse what working with him had meant to him. Too late to tell Val he loved her that last time. And now too late... 

_Get on with it, Robbie._ He swallows, pulling on the gloves mechanically.

Once they’re on, he reaches out and lays a couple of sheathed fingertips against James’s cheek – a momentary indulgence, a gesture of affectionate farewell before going about the business of solving a murder. 

 

***

_tbc in chapter 2_


	2. Next of Kin

As his fingertips press against James’s face, Robbie jerks in shock, then turns his head to shout back at the officers waiting behind him.

“He’s still warm!”

“Sir, it’s been sunny all morning,” one of the constables calls.

“He’s been lying in the shade, you fool!” Robbie digs in his pocket, finding his keys. He rubs the largest one, his car-key, clean on his jacket, then holds it to James’s lips. After close to a minute, he takes it away, heart in his mouth.

It’s steamed up.

“Call an ambulance!” he yells immediately. “He’s still alive, you bloody useless idiots!” 

James is still breathing. Just barely, but that’s enough. He’s _not_ dead. But because those incompetent fools reported him dead and only called for SOCO and the pathologist, he could have fucking died while they all stood around like morons.

He checks Hathaway’s airway for obstructions. Nothing immediately obvious, so he gently moves him, just a little, into the recovery position so he might be able to breathe more easily. Laura – or the paramedics – will no doubt disapprove loudly of that too, arguing that James could have a neck or back injury, but surely helping him to get oxygen into his lungs is more important?

He’s alive. Robbie closes his eyes briefly, thanking a deity he’s not even sure James believes in any more, let alone himself, and lets the fear and dread flow out of him. Most of it, anyway. James might be alive, but he’s clearly not hale and hearty.

Heavy footsteps come up behind him after a moment. “They say they looked for a pulse and found none, sir,” Hooper says quietly. 

Robbie smothers the words that spring to mind about stupid fucking useless pieces of lard who don’t deserve the uniforms they’re wearing. Instead, he gestures around. “This wasn’t an accident, either. He was attacked and left for dead.”

Hooper nods. “Looks like it, sir. He didn’t get those injuries from falling.”

There are sounds of activity behind him, but Robbie ignores it, keeping his finger on James’s pulse-point. He’s still breathing, but very faintly. 

“Robbie!” It’s Laura, at last, in full scene-suit and carrying her case. He looks around, but before he can say anything she continues, her expression anguished. “They told me it’s James. I’m so very-”

“He’s alive, Laura!” he shouts. “Only just, but-”

She’s crouching next to him in an instant, her initial shock giving way to complete professionalism as she pushes him aside and makes a brief, practised examination. “Right. I’m not surprised the lads who found him thought he was dead, though. You’d need to be pretty experienced to feel a pulse that faint. I can’t do much for him here, though – and anyway, I haven’t had much recent practice with the living.”

“Ambulance is on its way, Doctor,” Hooper says.

Lewis drops to his knees again next to James as Laura raises his head slightly and pushes a folded sterile sheet underneath. “What the hell happened to you, lad?” he murmurs softly, as much for his own comfort as from the belief that if James is alive then he might be subconsciously aware that he’s not alone. “Have you in hospital soon. You’re gonna be fine.”

And if he tells James that often enough, he might even start to believe it himself.

 

***

While the paramedics do their work, Lewis keeps himself busy by giving Hooper instructions about the scene and the forensic work he wants. “I want that CCTV search focused on all possible routes in this direction. And get me the call records on Hathaway’s phones for the last two days – work, mobile, home. House-to-house search and questioning around here, see if anyone saw or heard anything. You know the drill.”

“Yes, sir.” Hooper turns to talk to the uniforms. Robbie stands, hands in his pockets, staring at the stretcher as Hathaway’s loaded into the ambulance.

Laura touches his arm. “Go with him. Go on.”

“I’ve got a job to do!”

Her hand lingers, her expression gentle. “You’ll be good for nothing else until you know he’s going to be all right.”

Hooper’s next to him again. “Plenty of us to take care of things, sir. An’ you know the whole team’ll want to help. Probably the whole station. He’s one of us.” 

They’re right. As much as he wants to find the bastards who did this to James, he needs to be sure the lad’s going to be all right – needs to know the worst, too, so he can stop fearing it.

Hooper holds out his hand. “Give me your keys, sir.” Robbie nods and hands them over.

In the ambulance, Robbie stays out of the way of the paramedic who’s looking after James, keeping the head injury protected, monitoring his vital signs and getting fluids started. It’s not just the obvious common sense and professional courtesy. It’s also that, though he’s never in his life experienced any squeamishness around corpses and the severely injured – unlike Morse – it feels different when it’s someone he knows well. Someone he cares about.

And he’s suddenly finding that he doesn’t trust himself not to betray how much he cares.

What he wants to do is to reach over and examine James himself: to catalogue every bruise, every broken bone and blunt-force trauma, adding them all up as a supplement to the long list of charges he’s accumulating against the bastards who did this. There has to be more than one; there’s no way, unless he was incapacitated or drugged, that anyone could have done this to James without his putting up a bloody good fight in return, and most likely winning.

What he really wants to do is to hold James’s hand, or press a hand to his shoulder; to some uninjured part of him so that his sergeant – no, _friend_ – will know that he’s not alone. And so that he – Robbie – can be reassured that the faint pulse he felt is still beating, is getting stronger.

He’s nothing more than a spare part as they arrive at the John Radcliffe’s A&E, feeling in the way as the paramedics unload the stretcher and rush inside. It actually takes him a second or two to remember to flash his warrant card at the charge nurse who’s about to treat him as a family member and direct him to Reception. He still has to deal with paperwork, getting James identified and registered, but at least his status gets him back into the treatment area to speak to someone afterwards. 

James is in a treatment room by this point, and although he peers through the small window all he can see is a shrouded form on an operating table, only a fragment of James’s blond hair visible past the gowned medical staff and alarming array of equipment and machinery surrounding him.

Looks like it’s going to be a long wait.

 

***

Robbie’s outside A&E an hour or so later with his phone in his hand when it rings. Innocent. “I was just about to call you, Ma’am,” he says, not bothering with a greeting. It actually has the merit of being true.

“That’s what you always say, yet somehow I end up having to call you,” she answers dryly. “Robbie, how’s James? And why did I have to hear about this development from DC Hooper?”

“Couldn’t use a phone in the ambulance, Ma’am, or inside the hospital. James is... well, they’re still doing tests. There’s a head injury, and they’ll need a CT scan to see how bad it is. Besides that, they think a couple of broken ribs, broken wrist, probably some internal injuries, dehydration, and then whatever the blood tests show.” He pauses before outlining the worst of it. “He was barely breathing when I realised he was alive. They’re not sure whether his brain’s had enough oxygen, and they’ve lined up some other tests, but they won’t be able to tell the extent of any damage until he’s conscious.”

Cerebral hypoxia, they called it. Insufficient supply of oxygen to the brain, usually as a result of strangulation or choking, or smoke or carbon monoxide inhalation. James was strangled. It didn’t kill him, but his body – his brain – was starved of oxygen. On top of the CT scan, the doctor’s also requested an MRI and a couple of other three-letter-acronym tests. Ultimately, though, they need James conscious to be able to test his reactions and awareness fully.

“But he’ll be all right?” The anxiety in Innocent’s voice makes Robbie rush to answer.

“Depends. If the oxygen-deprivation’s not a problem, he’ll be fine in time. He’d be in hospital at least a few days, could be a week or two depending on what the tests find, and then off work for a week or more after that, at best.”

“And if there is brain damage?”

Robbie slumps back against the wall, his body abruptly weary. “We don’t know. Depends on how bad... Well.”

It’s unthinkable. Unbearable. James – clever, smartarse James – brain-damaged? His sharp mind and quick intellect impacted, perhaps gone forever? The very idea almost makes him want to weep. And who’d take care of the lad if it came to that, if the damage were bad enough that he was incapable of independent living?

Please, god, no. For him to survive being brutally attacked – for Robbie to find him miraculously alive, instead of dead as he’d feared – only to end up helpless, a shadow of his former self, would be so terribly cruel.

Even mild damage, the doctor explained, could leave James vulnerable to occasional involuntary movements or even seizures – conditions that would mean he’d have to transfer to a desk job or leave the police. No more detective work.

He exhales loudly, forcing the images from his mind. After all, the important thing is that James is alive. He so very nearly wasn’t. The doctor underlined that, based on his initial examination and Robbie’s description of where James was found and how long they suspected he may have been there. Much longer out there, barely breathing, and he would have died. No doubt about it.

“No point borrowin’ trouble, Ma’am. It’ll be hours before he’s conscious – maybe not until tomorrow if they have to keep him under because of the head injury.”

“Right.” He can hear Innocent drumming her fingers on her desk. “So we’ll just have to hope for the best.”

He swallows. “Yeah. I need you to order a round-the-clock police guard here. These bastards intended to kill him, and if they find out he’s alive they’ll be back for another go.” 

He can hear Innocent tapping at her computer. “Makes sense. I’ll have the first shift with you in ten minutes. You’ll liaise with hospital security?”

“Already talked to them. I’ll be heading back to the station soon as I’ve briefed the uniforms and I can get a squad car to pick me up.” If he stays here, all he can do is wait and worry and pace. If he goes back, he can get on with finding out who the hell left his sergeant for dead, and throwing them in the cells where they belong. Something useful, in other words. 

“But first there’s one more question I need to ask – James has never talked about his family and I’ve got the impression that either there’s none alive or they’re estranged. Who’s his emergency contact in employee records?”

He can hear the frown in Innocent’s voice as she answers. “There’s no-one on his NHS record?”

“No family, no.” There is a name on James’s NHS _in case of emergencies_ record now: Detective Inspector Robert Lewis. He had no idea James had listed him – the lad never said a word. He’s not complaining – it means he’ll be kept informed about James’s condition without needing to throw the weight of his warrant card around. But it’s worrying. Saddening. Surely James has _someone_ out there he belongs to? Someone who’ll care that he almost died?

Can it really be that _he_ is the most important person in his sergeant’s life?

Robbie’s still torn between feeling touched that James chose him and distressed that James doesn’t have anyone at all in his life who matters to him, so much so that the only person he could name as an emergency contact is his boss. No close friends. No lovers, or ex-lovers he’s still in contact with. Just his governor.

No, that’s not fair. He isn’t just James’s governor, is he? Not after all this time and everything they’ve been through together. They’re in and out of each other’s flats all the time – James has an open invitation to have breakfast at his if he’s picking Robbie up, and the spare duvet and pillows now live permanently in the hall cupboard for nights when a couple of beers turn into too many for James to drive legally – or when he just doesn’t feel like going home.

They’re much more than colleagues, and it’s long past time he acknowledged that. Shame on him that it took James almost dying, and then discovering his name on James’s file, to realise it.

“Just a minute, Robbie. I’m looking.” He waits. It’s only a few seconds before Innocent speaks again. “The field’s blank. I have no idea why no-one questioned that – it’s regulations that every officer has to provide an emergency contact or next-of-kin.”

“Yeah, I know.” Damn it, why did he never ask James? All the lad ever said about his parents – well, his father; he never mentioned his mother – is that his dad was the estate manager at Crevecoeur and that they left the estate when he was twelve. Where did they go after that? How come he went from the child of an estate worker to a pupil at a posh public school, and then a Cambridge undergraduate? Where the hell are his parents, if they’re even alive?

“Well, we’ll need to trace his family,” Innocent adds crisply. “I’ll get someone onto it. If the electoral roll doesn’t yield anything, there are other methods. Do you know anything at all about his parents? First names, former addresses, approximate age?”

“Other than the fact that they lived at Crevecoeur until James was twelve, no. Thing is, though,” he adds awkwardly, “I’m not sure James would want us doing that.”

“We don’t have a choice, Robbie.” Her tone’s brisk. “He’s seriously injured, perhaps critical. Next of kin has to be informed.”

“Em... well, that’s the thing, Ma’am.” Awkwardly, he explains. “He’s listed me as his emergency contact on his NHS record. Seems to say he doesn’t want anyone else involved, and we have to respect that.”

“You say that, Robbie,” Innocent continues, now impatient. “But do you want to have to deal with angry relatives if all doesn’t go well? Do you want to be the one to have to explain why no-one got in touch with them? Imagine if it was your son who’d almost been killed and who could be left damaged for life.” 

If it were his Mark... of course he’d want to know. But for all that Mark doesn’t stay in touch more than a phone call once or twice a year, they’re not estranged. He’d bet he’s not been removed from Mark’s emergency contacts. 

But ultimately it’s Innocent’s call, as far as the police is concerned. He’s not James’s emergency contact in work records. “Whatever you say, Ma’am.” He ends the call and heads back inside for one more check on James before returning to the station.

 

***

The medical staff are still running tests on James and they’ve said it’ll be several hours before there’s anything new – and at least that before Robbie will be allowed anywhere near him. So he might as well go back to the station for now. They’ll phone him if there’s any news, or if he’s needed.

The incident room’s a hive of activity as he walks back in: two whiteboards covered in information and photographs, people on telephones or studying computer screens, and others poring over printouts. Hooper’s in the middle of the room, apparently giving instructions to some other DCs. Scanning the room, Robbie’s gaze falls on a desk near his and James’s office. DI Grainger.

“Nick?” He strides over, frowning. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Chief Super pulled me off my current investigation. It’s nothing that important anyway,” Grainger adds with a shrug. “Insurance fraud. I’ve left my bagman digging through the paperwork. I’m here to help in any way you need.”

Help? Or take over? Grainger’s obviously figured out what’s on his mind, because he immediately shakes his head. “ _Help_ , Robbie. Hathaway’s your sergeant. I know if it was Ngoti I’d be bloody determined to catch the bastards myself too. Innocent wasn’t sure when you’d be back, so she asked me to hold the fort until you got here, and then see what you want me to do.”

“Sorry.” He drags a chair over and drops into it. “Thought she’d probably decided I was too close to it.”

Nick meets his gaze. “Honest reaction? You probably are. Know I would be. But that still doesn’t mean you’re not the best person to lead the investigation. No-one around here knows Hathaway better than you do, and probably no-one’s got as much motivation to find the bastards who did this to him.” Nick pats his shoulder. “Now, stop us all wondering and tell us how Hathaway is.”

So he does, and then gets an update on progress. Not much so far; nothing yet on the CCTV, though officers are continuing to search. No sign of any disturbance or attempt to break into James’s flat or his car. James’s phone records have revealed something that could be a lead – a call on his work mobile from an as-yet-untraced mobile number. One of the DCs is liaising with the provider to identify the caller, but it’s one of the smaller providers and actually getting hold of someone who can give her the information is proving difficult.

SOCO’s still finishing up at the site, and so far have reported at least two unidentified footprints, but getting a cast won’t be easy – it’s been dry for several days, and one of the footprints is partially obscured by a paramedic’s bootprint. No fibres or other potential forensic evidence found yet, but there’s still a chance, the SOCO lead is saying.

Laura’s expert opinion, voiced while they were waiting for the paramedics, is that the worst of the assault on James took place where he was found. The amount of blood under his head was consistent, she said, with his having been hit and falling down there, on the spot. As for the bruising around his neck, he wouldn’t have been able to walk far given how much his windpipe had been constricted. Robbie’d speculated that he could have been carried there after the near-strangulation, but Laura had countered that in her estimation the blow to James’s head had been delivered when he was standing, not lying.

So James had gone with his captors to Binsey, had gone into the woods with them – or been chased by them, given the damage to vegetation – and then... what? There are defensive wounds to his hands, as well as the broken wrist, so he had tried to fight his attackers.

And what was wrapped around his neck? The bruising isn’t consistent with a hand, and certainly not with a wire or rope. Laura’s liaising with the medical team at the hospital to get photographs the forensic team can work with, and also to check for any fibres or other materials that could be caught in the skin or in James’s clothing. If there’s evidence there, it’ll be found.

 

***

“We’re gonna get who did this to you.”

It’s much later, almost nine o’clock at night, and Robbie only left the station half an hour ago. He’d have been back at the hospital sooner – has been phoning at least hourly – but the only news was that tests were still ongoing, or later that James was in surgery to set his broken wrist. It’s only in the last couple of hours that he’s been moved to this private room, standard practice for police officers injured in the line of duty, and the doctor he’s been liaising with at least some of the time said that visitors would only be allowed once all the monitors, feeding tubes and so on were in place.

So, for a second time, he’s sitting beside an unconscious James Hathaway, only this time the damage is much more than smoke inhalation, involuntary drugging and a cut cheek. There’s a monitor measuring brainwaves, and another monitoring his breathing. Wires everywhere: a feeding tube, a glucose drip and a tube with something else – Robbie can’t remember what. Drugs of some sort. The back of James’s head is bandaged, his throat’s still bruised and raw, his face is half the colours of the rainbow, and his left wrist’s in a cast.

But he’s alive and breathing on his own. That’s got to count for something.

“Course, it’d help if you could wake up an’ tell me how the hell you got out to Binsey last night. More importantly, who took you there.”

No chance of James waking up for now, though. Unlikely for a couple of days, he’s now been told. His body needs the rest to recover from the lack of oxygen and blow to the head, and so the cocktail of drugs that’s being fed to him through the tube is helping to keep him comatose.

Makes things easier, in a way. Robbie’s not completely sure that he’s ready to talk to a conscious James yet. Too much his brain’s still sorting through, including just how devastated he was when Hooper came to say James’s body had been found – and realising that, whatever it is he does actually feel for James Hathaway, James seems to have been way ahead of him in feeling it back.

It’d felt like losing Morse all over again. No, worse. Not quite as bad as losing Val – nothing could ever be that bad – but closer to that than Morse. Nick Grainger’d said he understood, that he’d feel the same if it was his bagman here in this bed, but Robbie knows it’s not the same. Grainger and Joe Ngoti get on well, he’s seen that for himself, but it’s more of a strong professional working relationship, with loyalty and liking on both sides. Fellow coppers who respect each other. 

Him and James, they’re... he’s thinking _mates_ , but it’s more than that. Who does he spend more time with than James? Who does he gravitate to when he needs company, wants a chat, or just doesn’t feel like eating alone? There’ve been times when it’s felt like James almost lives at his flat: turning up in time to have breakfast, following him home – when the lad’s not working late – to share a takeaway and a couple of beers, and either going home at bedtime or falling asleep on the sofa.

“Long past time I just got a flat with a second bedroom, isn’t it? You’re too tall to sleep on that sofa. You should’ve said something, man.” 

Robbie shakes his head. Yeah, just as well James is unconscious. He’d never have said _that_ to him otherwise.

Talking to him’s good, though. That’s what the doctor said. So much of the workings of the human brain are still a mystery to the experts. A familiar voice can work wonders at times like these.

“Still amazes me sometimes, y’know.” Robbie shakes his head. “You askin’ to work with me. Never could work out just what it was. Almost never happened at all, too. If you’d not been sent to meet me at Heathrow. If I’d not made you take me to Val’s grave. If you’d not got that callout while we were still there. If that idiot Chas Knox hadn’t had a few too many. If Grainger hadn’t been in court... any one thing different an’ we’d not have met at all, or just been fleeting acquaintances. Innocent would’ve had me pensioned off or put out to grass and that would’ve been that.”

His eyes drifting shut, he can almost see James’s slightly mocking expression in response. _God moves in mysterious ways and all that mumbo-jumbo, sir._

Yeah, yeah.

“Thought you were an annoying god-botherer, I did. Even told someone that – that sleep clinic director. Remember her? Couldn’t make head or tail of you: what the bloody hell was an almost-priest doing working as a copper? But then I only saw what you wanted people to see. Upper-class, over-educated public schoolboy.” Lewis snorts lightly. “Hope you never turn to crime, lad. You’re a bloody tough nut to crack. Thought I’d managed it, but you keep surprisin’ me. Like this latest thing. Me, your emergency contact?”

He shifts position; these damn plastic chairs aren’t the most comfortable. Probably hospital policy, designed not to encourage visitors to overstay their welcome. Maybe if he leans forward... “Might’ve told me,” he continues, and lays his hand on top of the sheet, close to where James’s lies, with the drip set into the back of his right hand. “Wouldn’t’ve come as such a surprise then. What, did you think I’d have a problem with it? Should know me better after all this time, man.”

Robbie stares down at his hand, the index finger inches away from James’s. 

Touch is important as well, the doctor told him. 

Tentatively, he shifts his hand: a little, a little more, until his finger is brushing against James’s. Then, as if the initial contact has broken down an invisible barrier, he slides his hand under James’s fingers and grips – lightly, but securely.

“Dunno what I would’ve been these past years without you. Was only the job that was keepin’ me going, an’ sometimes even that didn’t help. People around treating me with kid gloves, as if they expected me to fall apart in front of them. Never realised at the time how much of what kept me sane was working with you. An’ that’s not countin’ you finding Val’s killer.” Robbie’s fingers clench around James’s for a moment. “Never even thanked you properly for that, did I? And all those times you stepped in when idiots we didn’t even know put their foot in it with me, getting too personal.”

He’ll never be fully over losing Val, not if he lives another twenty or thirty years. But she’s a fond memory now, not an aching, jagged gap in his heart – and, while time and Lyn and Laura and other things have contributed to him getting to where he is now, he couldn’t have got here without James’s solid, stalwart presence.

And yet in recent months it’s starting to feel as if James is the lonely one out of the two of them, the one consumed by some unexplained sadness or loss. He’s seen it – but he’s done nothing about it. Been missing his cue, hasn’t he? About time he was as good a friend to James as James was for him.

“Just wake up, lad. Wake up and be the James Hathaway we all know and moan about, and I’ll take you for a pint so we can get to the bottom of what’s been botherin’ you. All right?”

But the still form of his sergeant in the bed doesn’t move, doesn’t respond. Robbie lapses into silence, but doesn’t let go of James’s hand.

 

***  
 _tbc_


	3. Frustrations

“I know you won’t want to hear this, Robbie, but we need to discuss staffing. Even under the best-case scenario, James won’t be fit for work for at least a week.”

Robbie winces and looks away, resisting the urge to snap at his superior officer. What, does she think he imagines James’ll wake up one second and be walking at his heels again the next?

He’s just come from the hospital; although he’d intended to go straight to work, he somehow found himself heading towards the John Radcliffe instead, and he spent half an hour sitting by an unresponsive James’s bedside again. No change, the duty nurse told him, but he had a restful night, which apparently is a good sign. Always assuming anyone really knows what a good sign is. 

Then he’d no sooner got to the station than Innocent had called him into her office for an update on James’s condition – and now this.

Briskly, Innocent continues, “You can’t be without a sergeant for that long. I want to assign Sergeant Bennett to you – she needs the training and some experience working directly with an inspector.”

Bennett? He’s never met her – new to the station, he vaguely remembers, but that’s all he can bring to mind. Robbie’s about to interrupt, to object that he’s got plenty of good people on his own team and he doesn’t need someone new – especially someone he’d barely have time to get used to before James is back – but she pre-empts him. “I know you want to argue with me, Robbie, but we have to be realistic. And in any case, assuming James does come back fit and well, it’s high time he started looking to his future. He’s more than ready to sit the OSPRE exams, in my opinion. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t put him forward before now. It’s your job as his inspector to monitor and advise on his career development. You do remember that, don’t you?”

Of course he bloody well does. But what he can’t tell Innocent is that every time he’s brought up inspector training with James his sergeant’s changed the subject – each time more pointedly than the last. He meant to force the conversation, to find out exactly what James’s problem is, but he’s been putting it off, not wanting the inevitable argument or, more likely, cold refusal even to discuss the matter.

And anyway, he half-suspects he knows what’s behind it. James gave him a pretty substantial clue with _if you go, I go_. Promotion would mean breaking up their partnership.

 _Who else would understand me?_ James had asked, rhetorically of course, and in that self-mocking tone that suggests he’s not at all serious but, of course, only thinly disguises the fact that he’s very serious indeed. No; if James is still thinking that way, he’s definitely not going to like this.

But he can’t tell Innocent any of this. “You’re probably right that he’s ready, ma’am. But I was hoping that I’d be the one to see him through his preparation. You know, mentoring him and suchlike?”

“You should already have started that, Robbie. Quite a while ago, in my estimation.” Innocent looks away from him, writing something on her notepad. “Perhaps another senior officer would be more effective in that role. In any case, all that’s academic until we know more about his state of health. You’ll be working with Bennett from now on.”

“Ma’am-”

“I know you’ll think I’m being insensitive, Robbie.” Innocent’s looking straight up at him again, and he frowns at the genuine compassion in her eyes. “I’m as worried about James as we all are. I know the two of you are close, and I’ll be honest with you: I really think that you should take some leave, at least until James’s condition is more stable. I know you don’t want that. You want to stay and find his attackers, and I’m fine with that. But you need a sergeant, and I’ll admit that I’ve been thinking for a while that it’s time to break you two up. You’ve been good for Hathaway, but he’s been getting far too comfortable as your sergeant, and I suspect that’s holding him back.”

He’s holding James back? Robbie can’t keep the rage inside him any more. His palms are already raw from digging his nails in. “Insensitive, you said? Too bloody right. We don’t even know if he’s gonna remember his own name, an’ you’re planning his future – a future he might not want, for all you know.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” There’s an edge to Innocent’s voice that warns him he’s said too much.

He only hesitates for a moment. He’s already gone too far to claim it’s nothing. “Just that you’re wrong if you imagine I’ve never raised the subject of promotion with him.”

Innocent’s eyes widen and she’s about to speak, but then sighs. “As you say, this isn’t the right time. What progress is being made on finding who attacked him?”

Not as much as Robbie would like. “Was just on my way to the incident room when you caught me, Ma’am. I’ve only had a brief phone update so far today.”

She stands. “I’ll come with you.”

 

***

 

There’s frustratingly little that’s new. Still nothing on the CCTV or house-to-house interviews, and James’s call history – on any of his phones – hasn’t turned up anything remotely useful. This is ridiculous. How can a man have vanished into thin air from outside his own police station and then turned up by the canal six miles away, with no clues at all as to how he got there?

“Tyre tracks leading to the canal?” Robbie barks out.

“Two unidentified vehicles, sir,” one of the DCs – Helen – answers. “One’s a Ford Focus or something of similar size-” 

“So not going to be easy to track down,” Robbie comments, pulling a face.

“No, sir. And the other tyre is a type used by small Transit vans – the short wheel-base variety. We might have a bit more luck there. One of the tyres has something stuck in it and Forensics got a pretty good impression of the print. A team’s already gone out with photos to check all small Transits in the city.”

“They’re mostly hire vehicles, aren’t they?” Innocent points out. “So we could usefully get names of anyone who would have had a Transit rented overnight the night before last.”

“Assumin’ the Transit’s got anything to do with this, yes, Ma’am.” Robbie’s about to dismiss the case conference and send everyone back to work, but before he can a woman standing at the back, a DS whom he recognises vaguely, waves a hand.

“Sir? This is probably a stupid question, but has anyone spoken to the desk sergeant on duty the night before last?”

Robbie frowns, glancing around and waiting for someone to answer. No-one’s mentioned it in the twenty-four hours since he realised James was missing, but it’s such a bleedin’ obvious thing to do. “Anyone?” he asks, impatient, as the silence continues.

“Roy Masters was on, sir,” Hooper says, hanging up his phone. “He hasn’t been on duty since.”

Robbie exchanges glances with Innocent. “Someone get onto it. Now. And update me as soon as you’ve spoken to him.” He turns back to the officer who asked the question. “Nice work.”

Innocent’s already beckoning the woman forward. “Inspector Lewis, this is Sergeant Bennett. She’ll be your bagman for the foreseeable future.”

 

***

Bennett’s not half-bad. She’s been a copper more than ten years, though only just transferred to this station in the last month, and she’s thorough, intuitive and eager to please. Maybe too eager occasionally, but it’s probably understandable given she’s working with an inspector new to her and, from what he can tell, it’s her first stint as a bagman. She does have the kind of attention to detail that’ll make her invaluable to the right governor. If he’d not been working with James for the past six years and nowhere near ready to lose him, he’d be very happy with her.

It’s not her fault that she’s not James, and that Innocent’s set her up as a replacement for James that he doesn’t even want to accept there’s a need for. 

Putting her to work is easy. He already knew what his first priority would be for today before he even left the hospital last night. “I want you to pull the files on every single case Sergeant Hathaway worked on since he joined Oxfordshire CID.”

She passes his test, calling on one of the uniformed constables and repeating the instruction. That’s not a job for a DS. Turning back to him, she says, “Where do you want me to work, sir?”

Another point for her, he concedes. She’s not assuming that because she’s his temporary bagman she gets the other desk in his office – James’s desk. He glances around and spies an empty desk in the main office, close enough so that he can call her – or gesture to her through the window – if needed. 

By the time she’s settled and they’ve got each other’s mobile numbers in their contacts list, the first batch of files has come. They’re from the last couple of years, cases he remembers well. Maybe too well – he’s not going to be distant, detached enough from them to see what could be there to be seen.

“You take those,” he instructs Bennett. “When Hathaway’s older cases – anything I wasn’t involved in – come up, bring them to me. You know what to look for?”

She nods. “Threats, signs of irrational behaviour and so on from any of the suspects, sir.”

He nods. “Not just suspects we arrested. Anyone we questioned along the way who might’ve taken exception. Family members, too. Check trial transcripts as well as the case notes. Bring me anything you think is worth looking into.”

It’s a frustrating slog, once he’s finally got a few of James’s early cases in front of him – but then much police work is like that and he’s used to it. It’s just that in this case he’s less patient with the slow, meticulous search for anything that might be a lead. It’s even more frustrating that no-one seems to be able to track down the desk sergeant; there’s no answer from his home phone or his mobile.

An hour or so later, when his phone rings, his first reaction is relief for the interruption, until it occurs to him, reaching into his pocket for the Blackberry, that it could be the hospital with either good or bad news. But it’s Laura.

“I just wanted to ask how you’re coping, Robbie.” 

He closes his eyes briefly and turns his chair away from the window. “I’d be coping a lot better if I could just find who did this to him.”

“You will,” she assures him, brisk encouragement in her voice. “You know you’re a damn good detective – I know there’s no-one else James would want to have on the case. You’ll get there.”

“Damn right.” He will, if it’s the last thing he does. But that’s not what’s at the forefront of his mind right now. “There’s no news, is there?”

“Sorry, no change. I went up about half an hour ago, dodged past the uniform at his door and managed to sneak a look at his chart and grab thirty seconds with the duty registrar. But at this stage that’s nothing to worry about – in fact, it’s more likely to be a good thing. More time for his body to recover from the trauma.”

“Yeah, but the longer the coma the less likely he is to come out of it, right? I mean, I know cases like Chloe Brooks don’t happen every day.”

“To quote your neck of the woods, Robbie, no point borrowing trouble. Right now, it’s doing him good. You know they’ll reassess things if another couple of days go past and there’s no change in his level of consciousness.”

Wait, wait, wait. Feels like that’s all he’s doing right now, and for all that a large part of his job for so many years was simply to wait around for his governor he’s just not able or willing to be patient in this waiting game.

“Chin up, Robbie,” Laura finishes, in that bracing tone she’s so practised at. “And do me a favour? Look after yourself. Don’t get so caught up between work and visiting James that you forget to eat – I’ll just be forced to come and feed you otherwise, and since my expertise is _not_ with the living it’s an experience you wouldn’t enjoy, I can promise you!”

 

***

It’s mid-afternoon and his and Bennett’s list of possible suspects is growing. But, as he tells Innocent and Grainger when they check in with him, it’s just guesswork and probably completely meaningless. Names of people James put away who probably don’t feel very pleased with him; whether or not that displeasure would extend to abducting him and having him killed is another matter entirely. But he’s still despatched officers to interview suspects and family members.

He’s still working his way through cases James worked on with Knox and at times when he was on leave and James was assigned to other teams. If it weren’t for the reason this is necessary, he’d find it fascinating – for some reason, James never talks about his pre-Lewis days. Robbie figured out a long time ago that Knox and Hathaway was not a happy partnership, but since it’s hardly diplomatic to encourage a subordinate to speak critically of another senior officer he stayed away from the topic.

There are interruptions for updates, though none of them useful. No luck tracing the tyre-track that could be a Ford Focus. No Transits found with tyres that match the impression found, and officers are widening their search beyond the city to the smaller surrounding towns. The fibres found around James’s neck are synthetic, the sort of material used in the kind of thin, cheap cotton scarves sold all over the place. The scarf was knotted, the forensic report states, which is what caused the bruising. The fibres are in different shades of blue, so they know what colour scarf they’re looking for, but if the bastard who did it has any sense it’ll have been burned or thrown in the canal. 

Robbie starts suddenly as there’s a movement next to his desk. Sergeant Bennett’s setting down a takeaway cup of coffee, from that posh place Hathaway likes so much, by his keyboard. “Oh. Thanks, Serg-” He breaks off, chiding himself. “Never even asked your name, did I?”

“Didn’t expect you to, sir. It’s Christine – Chris.”

His gaze falls on her left hand, caught in her right as she stands by his desk, awaiting dismissal, he suspects. “Married? Kids? Sorry, not bein’ nosy,” he adds quickly as she frowns. “Well, s’pose I am, really, but not intentionally.”

She smiles for the first time. “Married. Husband’s a copper too. Uniformed sergeant, based in Cowley. Two kids, both boys, eight and six.”

He smiles back at her. None of this is her fault, and she’s doing her best to help without treading on Hathaway’s territory. “Bet they’re a handful. I remember when my lad was their age.”

She nods, but is immediately businesslike again. “Sir, I also came in to tell you that DS Ngoti tracked down Sergeant Masters – he had a couple of days off and was playing golf in Henley. He’s coming in and expects to get here in about half an hour. Do you want to talk to him?”

Too fucking right. “Yes. Get me as soon as he’s here. And, Chris?” Already on her way out of the office, she glances back at him. “Thank you.”

He’s barely had a chance to return his attention to the case-file when his desk phone rings. Innocent. “Robbie, can you come to my office now, please.”

“On my way, Ma’am.” Shit, shit. Why would Innocent be wanting him in her office? Bad news about James? But, no, he’s the emergency contact. He’d get the call. Though it could be another attempt on his life. Which, as long as the protection team did their job, could be a good thing if it means they get to find out who’s behind this.

Innocent waves him to a seat when he’s in her office. “Robbie, I told you that I felt I had to make an effort to trace James’s family.” She gestures to a file on her desk. “I felt you needed to be aware of what’s in here, but of course it goes no further than this office.”

For a moment, he can’t even reach out for the manila folder. It’s clearly bad, or Innocent wouldn’t have called him in here. Course, he’s suspected for some time that James’s upbringing wasn’t all sunshine and flowers – and what he uncovered at Crevecoeur, which he’s pretty damn sure James knew about all along, just reinforced his suspicion. 

But James is such a private person. If he wanted his governor to know about his past, his background, he’d have told him himself. This feels like an invasion of his privacy.

“You need to see it, Robbie.” Innocent stands, makes clear that she’s leaving the room. “When you’ve finished-” She gestures to the small confidential shredder in the corner.

As the door closes behind her, Robbie reluctantly leans forward and slides the folder towards him.

 

***

“You better wake up PDQ or you might not have a job you want to come back to, if my guess is right. Innocent’s already assigned me your replacement an’ told me she’s been planning for a while to split us up an’ get you ready for promotion.” Without conscious thought, he reaches out his hand and folds it around James’s, then looks at their joined hands and experiences a moment’s puzzlement about how they got like that.

“I don’t know whether I’m just a stick-in-the-mud, so long in the job I can’t cope with change any more, or whether Innocent’s right and we have been together too long. It’s not good for you if I can’t let you move on, is it?” He scrubs his face with his free hand. “But then I’ve only worked this closely with a few people in my whole career, haven’t I? Two governors when I was a sergeant, then two bagmen as an inspector, until today.” 

His thumb rubs against the tip of James’s index finger, feeling the rough skin that’s obviously a consequence of his guitar-playing. Skin’s probably yellowed as well, from the smoking.

“She’s not bad, is Bennett. Not you, o’course, but no-one’s gonna be that. Still doesn’t mean I want anyone else. But Innocent says I’m holdin’ you back, that you should be going for promotion an’ that someone else might do a better job of seein’ you through it.”

He can imagine James’s response, as clearly as if his partner said it aloud. With respect – or even without it – that’s bollocks. 

“Thing is, though, if I’m interpreting things right, you don’t want promotion, do you? You’re gonna resign when I retire – you’ve not said it, but it’s not been that difficult to figure out. Wish you’d actually talk to me about it. You’re too good at the job to just throw it away, an’ if there’s other options...”

Robbie shakes his head. Without knowing what James wants – without knowing whether James is going to have the choice of coming back to the job – there’s no point thinking about this right now.

He sits up straight abruptly. “Should’ve told you straight away. There’s a bit of a development. Masters – the desk sergeant on duty night you were attacked – remembers someone coming in an’ leaving a package for you, about an hour before you left. We’ve got the bloke on CCTV – and film of him getting into a Transit after.”

No-one thought to search CCTV for that long before James disappeared. Robbie can’t criticise anyone for it; after all, it wouldn’t have occurred to him either and if anyone had asked he’d have thought it was a waste of time. But now they’ve got a face, and they have the van on film. The techies are working on enhancing the images, trying to find the van’s number-plate, and using facial recognition software to identify the bloke. They’re also scouring CCTV again looking for a Transit parked somewhere near the station in the hour before James left, and also driving away after the time James was seen in the car park.

It’s progress. The team’s working late on this right now, and they’re under instructions to call him immediately if they get a name or an address, no matter the time.

Twisting his wrist, he looks at his watch. Half-ten; past time that he should have left. But something’s keeping Robbie here by James’s bedside, and he knows what it is: the guilt that’s gnawing at him for the past eight hours or so.

“I know what happened to you, lad,” he finally says, his voice low; maybe, if James is hearing any of what he talks about, he won’t hear this. “Innocent was digging. Said she had to find your family. Wasn’t fair that they weren’t bein’ told about this. She couldn’t find any records through the usual databases, so she did some deep digging. Wish she hadn’t, but anyway... She insisted on me reading the file.”

He felt bloody wretched afterwards, even though he’d already suspected some of it. A report from James’s school when he was twelve that teachers suspected he’d been sexually abused. An inconclusive investigation; James refused to answer questions and his parents denied all knowledge. It still led to an application to have him taken into care, but then he won a scholarship as a boarder to that posh public school he went to. Arrangements were made to have him live there year-round if he wanted – god, the lad must have kicked up some fuss for that to happen. And then once he was sixteen it was up to him anyway.

The last page in the file referred to his mother’s suicide when James was twenty, and a last known address for his father, in the Canary Islands. Innocent hadn’t suggested contacting Peter Hathaway, and after skimming the file Robbie would have fought her tooth and nail if she had insisted. James’s father might not have been the abuser, but if he’d done anything to stop it other than eventually moving away from Crevecoeur Robbie’d eat his warrant card.

After he’d shredded the file, he’d had to fight the urge to throw up. He had gone to the gents and scrubbed his hands thoroughly enough that even Laura would’ve been impressed.

“Anyway, it’s over and done with.” Robbie rubs his forehead. “Probably time I went. If we get lucky, I’ll have some better news tomorrow.” He stands, releases James’s hand, then hesitates for a moment.

Before he can think better of it, he bends, kisses James’s forehead lightly, then straightens. “Night, James.”

 

***

At seven the next morning, Robbie’s just about to have breakfast when his phone rings. It’s Bennett.

“Sir? I thought you’d want to know. We’ve traced the bloke who came to the station asking for Sergeant Hathaway. And DVLA records show he owns a Transit – small wheel-base.”

At last, a break. And that’s why they couldn’t find the Transit; they were mainly assuming it would’ve been hired. “Get him brought in for questioning. I’m on my way.” 

They’ve got the bastard. And the bloke’d better be ready to confess and explain why he did it, or Robbie won’t be responsible for his actions.

Twenty minutes later, when he gets to the incident room, Chris is waiting for him. “Uniform just called to say they’ve picked him up. They’ll have him in an interview room in about fifteen minutes. Oh, and Forensics’ll have to confirm it, but one of the officers took a look at the tyres of the Transit. Front wheel’s got a stone wedged in the tyre, and he says the shape’s similar to the impression SOCO took from the crime scene.”

He nods. This is bloody good news. Might not even need a confession to get a conviction, at this rate. “What do we know about him?”

Bennett has the information waiting. “Name’s Michael Cox. He’s been living with his sister and her husband in Jericho since he lost his last job as a car park attendant three months ago. Has a history of getting sacked, apparently.”

“Record?”

“Oh, yes. Mostly small-time stuff: mugging, smash and grab, breaking into parked cars, that sort of thing. Spends the proceeds on gambling, according to one of the sentencing reports. That seems to be why he can’t keep jobs either.”

Robbie studies the mug-shot Bennett’s given him. Thirty-something, scruffy, close-cropped hair and stubble. “Doesn’t sound like the kind of bloke to turn to murder. Any connection to Hathaway?” 

“None that we can find. Sergeant Hathaway wasn’t involved in any of the arrests.”

“Hmm.” There has to be something he’s missing. What motive would this bloke have for trying to kill James? Not that it matters too much; he’ll get it out of him, no matter how long it takes.

“I was wondering,” Bennett says, tugging at a strand of hair that’s escaped from behind her ear. “Could he have done it for someone else? Someone Sergeant Hathaway would’ve been suspicious of? Maybe he was just the bloke who got Hathaway away from here.”

Could be. Which means they’ve still got to find the attempted murderer or murderers. But that’s achievable. If he can lean on this bloke hard enough – and he intends to – they’ll get the information they need. It certainly looks like they’ve got enough to make a case that he made contact with James and that his van was at the scene where James was found. That’s enough for CPS. If the bloke didn’t do it, he’ll want to shop whoever did to get himself off the hook.

“Maybe,” he says, starting to run through scenarios in his head. He takes the folder from Bennett. “Call me when he’s ready for me.”

In his office, he goes through the file, reading the arrest records, probation officer reports, sentencing reports and so on. On the second run-through, one item jumps out at him.

_Probation agreed on condition offender agrees to seek support from Gamblers Anonymous._

Robbie drums his fingers on the edge of his desk. That was seven years ago. And he remembers another petty criminal and hopeless gambler who also worked with the Oxford branch of Gamblers Anonymous. Could it be...? A bit of a stretch, surely, but is it possible?

“Sir?” Bennett’s at the door. “He’s in interview room three, whenever you’re ready.”

Robbie glances at the file again, then nods, taking a deep breath as images of James lying bleeding, almost dead, by the canal flash before his eyes. This bastard’s going to pay. “I’m ready.”

 

***

“Always knew that smart-alec tongue of yours’d get you into trouble one of these days.”

It’s late evening, and Robbie’s back by James’s bed. The team of officers rotating on guard duty outside the door have been relieved of their duty, and the team back at the station is starting the laborious task of compiling all the forensic and other evidence. James’s would-be murderer, confession extracted, is in custody, and the other parties to the crime are under even closer guard, now moved to maximum-security prisons where every single communication will be monitored. And, if he has his way, they’re unlikely, after this, ever to see freedom again.

He pulls his chair closer and reaches for James’s hand; doesn’t feel right now sitting here without touching the lad. He’s so still, lying there in the bed, that even though the monitors are beeping away, showing signs of life, he needs to feel warm skin under his hands and know that a pulse is beating inches away if he wants to check.

“We got him. Got the lot of them. Bloke who tried to kill you – he didn’t even know you. That was his mistake – that an’ being stupid. Instead of finding out where you lived, he went to the station. Dropped off an envelope for you. Nothing in it, o’ course. Just a way of checking that you were still there – apparently, he got into casual conversation with a PC and managed to find out that you have a habit of working late. Then he waited for you. Came up an’ asked for a light, an’ that’s when his mate bashed you over the head.”

Cox had been clever enough to get James into the van out of sight of the CCTV, and dump his phone to make it harder to trace him. He chose the canal as somewhere quiet enough at that time of night that they wouldn’t be seen. “Only problem was, his mate didn’t hit you hard enough. You’d come round by the time they opened up the back of the van. You fought them – no more than I’d expect, o’ course.” Robbie smiles. “Did you know you broke the other bloke’s nose?”

James doesn’t answer, of course. 

“Two against one, though – not a fair fight. Especially as one of them had a bloody tyre lever.” In the interview room, Cox – almost wetting himself because he knew he was going down for attempted murder – described what they did in detail: how his mate, Lyons, lashed out at James with the lever in retaliation for the injury to his nose, how James howled in pain and grabbed his wrist, but immediately ran away down the track, the two of them in pursuit.

“Said he thought you were never gonna bloody die. They chased you halfway down that track until Cox caught up and got the scarf around your neck. Even then, you still fought, broken wrist an’ all.” In the end, Cox got desperate, he explained. Holding the scarf in one hand, he grabbed the tyre lever in the other and whacked James in the back of the head. He went down like a felled tree, blood everywhere. Cox tightened the scarf one more time before pulling it away and making a run for it.

“He was sure you were dead. Never even checked.” Robbie shakes his head. “Bloody amateur. He even still had the weapons in his van. Scarf belongs to his sister – she’s identified it – and his an’ his mate’s prints are all over the lever.”

But Cox is small-time. It’s who was behind it that Robbie wanted to get when he went into the interview room. And he didn’t even have to push to find out that he was right: Cox was only too willing to point the finger. “Remember Professor Walters and Dr Stringer? _Keats, Milton, rest of the guys in the band?_ ” Again, James doesn’t answer, though Robbie’s imagination can see him allow himself a crooked little smile.

“Seems they’d been looking for revenge ever since we put them away. On you, not me. Walters because you were nosy enough to spot her USB, and Stringer ‘cause he thinks you’re an arrogant little snot. Yeah, that’s a direct quote.” Robbie leans back in his chair and grins. He went to see both of them: confronted them with Cox’s confession and the evidence of phone and visitor logs. 

“They’d got desperate. Just about all their contacts, the people who’d done dirty work for them before, told them to piss off. Not so powerful now they’re in prison. Eventually, they were left with Cox: petty criminal, small-time gambler. And they struck lucky – he was gettin’ threatened with having his kneecaps smashed by a not-very-nice bloke he owed five grand to. They offered him six to off you. He claimed he’d done it, but they hadn’t paid him yet – another reason he was so eager to confess all. They were waiting for the newspaper report.”

There was nothing in the papers – a deliberate strategy not to report either the attack on James or the fact that he’d survived it.

“Anyway, once all the paperwork’s sorted it’ll be up to CPS. Though we’ve got enough to put him away for a very long time.” And just about every officer in the station’s offered to help in some way, whether in the beginning with the search – for James, and later for the perpetrators – and now with paperwork, compiling evidence, covering for officers who may be needed to testify and anything else they can think of. Cox and his accomplice have already been transferred to another nick pending their remand hearing, because no-one wanted them in the station cells.

Robbie rubs his thumb back and forth across the back of James’s hand. Falling silent, he focuses his gaze on the still form of his sergeant in the bed. The bruises on his face are a dull brown now, the bandage on the back of his head smaller. But he’s still unconscious. There’s still no new information on whether, when he does wake up, there’ll be brain or cognition damage.

“I did my bit, man,” Robbie says at last. “I got the bastards who did this. Your turn now, isn’t it? You can’t-”

He breaks off. Why’s he got a lump in his throat now?

He got the bastards. They didn’t get away with it. So why doesn’t he feel like he’s achieved something important? 

“Ah, ‘m wastin’ me time. You’ll wake up when you’re good an’ ready.” He takes a long, deep breath. “Best just go home, me. Not doin’ any good here, am I?”

He loosens his grip on James’s hand, starting to push back his chair. And then freezes as long fingers tighten around his. 

 

***

_tbc_


	4. Progress

Time seems to slow. Everything around him fades until all he can look at is their still-joined hands. All he can focus on is that – unless he’s imagining things – James just moved.

“James?” The rusty sound he’s just made doesn’t sound like his own voice. 

There’s no answer. The fingers around his have slackened again. Christ. He did just imagine it, didn’t he? Damn it, he’s too bloody old for this, getting his hopes up and having them crash around him again.

For the second time, he starts to draw his hand back. For the second time, the hand in his won’t let go.

“Sir... need... cig’r...” Robbie’s gaze shoots up to James’s face. His eyes are still closed, but his head’s shifted. “Kea... Shell... no’ Milt...”

“Eh?” He stares at the lad. “What’re you trying to say?” James isn’t making any sense. Is this normal, because he’s just coming out of it, or is it a sign that there is some permanent brain damage?

“Keats, Shelley, Byron – not Milton. Sir. And I could murder a cigarette.” The lad’s voice is weak, not at all like James’s normal laconic tone. But the intelligence behind it is all James. 

Breathless relief makes Robbie slump back into his chair. “Never thought I’d be happy to hear you tellin’ me I’d got something wrong. God, am I glad-”

He breaks off. What the heck is he thinking? He reaches for the call signal, summoning help. They’ll want to look James over, probably do yet more tests. and with any luck some of those machines and wires might go.

That done, he turns back to James, and finds the lad’s eyes open to slits, watching him. 

“At the... risk of sounding clichéd...”

“What, you?”

“You look like you’ve... seen a ghost, sir.”

The door bursts open, sparing him the need to answer. He’s pushed aside as the duty staff nurse takes in the scene and reaches for the call button again, and seconds later he’s manhandled out of the room, the door slammed shut behind him.

Robbie collapses into a chair in the hallway and closes his eyes, giving silent thanks to a God he knows he doesn’t believe in, but who might well have been watching over James all the same.

 

***

 

It’s close to an hour before the door opens again and Dr Morgan, the junior registrar he’s had a couple of conversations with since James was admitted and moved to this room, exits. She gives him a quick smile and comes to sit next to him.

“It’s good news, you’ll be pleased to hear. We’ve just done a whole battery of tests on his cognitive, memory and motor functions, and responses were well within the normal range. I feel confident in saying that he’ll make a full recovery.”

Robbie nods, slowly unclenching the fists he hadn’t realised were digging into his lower thighs. “Thank you. Um, how long...?”

“We just want to keep him under observation for at least another twenty-four hours. That is quite a nasty head injury, after all, and his carotid was almost crushed, though he’s been making an excellent recovery so far. But I’d say you could take him home the day after tomorrow.”

Take him home... _But he doesn’t live with me_ , Robbie’s about to say, but shuts his mouth. It’s hardly as if that’s her business, and anyway, James might need some help for a bit with that broken wrist. He’s certainly not going to risk him not being discharged because he’ll be going back to an empty flat.

He turns back to the door as it opens again and other medical personnel come out, some wheeling equipment, and then returns his attention to Dr Morgan as the last of them pulls the door shut again. “All right if I go back in now?”

She smiles. It’s professional but kind, and he wonders how many years it took her to get that balance just right. “Just for a couple of minutes, and then you should go home. He needs rest – and so do you. You can come back tomorrow.”

Robbie lets himself in again, closing the door quietly in case James is already asleep. But he’s propped up on pillows, his eyes properly open now. He smiles as Robbie approaches. “I was starting to wonder if I’d imagined you.”

The voice is still not back to normal, but the delivery is all familiar James, and Robbie’s world is starting to feel right again. 

“Nah. If your imagination was on the job, I’m sure it’d come up with someone you’d actually want to see.”

James raises an eyebrow. “Considering you’re exactly who I’d want to see, I beg to disagree, sir.”

Robbie glances down, at a loss as to how to respond. Course, the lad’s no doubt pumped full of drugs still. Unlikely he’ll remember any of this tomorrow. Looking back up again, he catches James watching him, the expression in his eyes soft and a smile on his lips that Robbie can only describe as soppy.

Yeah, he’s doped to the eyeballs.

“Doctor says I need to go,” he tells James. “Just came in to see that you really are okay.”

“They say I’ve got a pretty tough skull.” James’s hand is moving, waving slightly in his direction, and it dawns on Robbie that James is actually asking him to take it. Well, he held the bloke’s hand while he was unconscious, and if James is still not himself and not likely to remember...

“Something we’ve got in common, then,” he says, stepping closer and wrapping his hand around James’s. “Got told years ago I have a skull like an anvil. All right now? I really do have to go.”

James nods. “You’ll fill me in tomorrow? I think you told me before – at least, I have a vague memory of something about Professor Walters and a tyre lever, but that just might be my imagination running riot.”

“She wasn’t the one with the tyre lever, no. But you’re on the right lines.”

“Did you come rushing to my rescue?” The question, and the way it’s asked, is so typical James; even with his intensive knowledge of the bloke, Robbie still can’t tell if he’s serious or mocking. Or mocking _himself_ , even.

“Don’t be daft.” He squeezes James’s hand reassuringly, then frees his hand, and tells himself it doesn’t feel empty. “Get some sleep. Be wantin’ you back on the job soon as you can manage it. They don’t pay you to lie around, y’ know.”

“You miss me.” James’s smile is definitely loopy. Robbie’ll have to remember this conversation – just the thing to embarrass his sergeant should it be necessary in the future.

“Goodnight,” he says firmly now. 

He can feel James’s gaze on him until he’s left the room.

 

***

“Sorry to call you so late, Ma’am. But I thought you’d want to know-”

“James?” She interrupts him before he can finish.

“Yeah. He’s awake. Gonna be fine, the doctor says. No sign of any permanent damage. I’d say he’ll be back at work in a few days.”

“That’s really good news.” He can hear the relief in Innocent’s voice. “Thanks for letting me know, Robbie.”

“Like I said, thought you’d want to. Look, I’ll be in a bit later tomorrow. Need to take some stuff around for him – from his flat, like.” Handy that he’s got a key to James’s flat – they exchanged keys a couple of years ago, for emergencies and for keeping an eye on each other’s place if one is away. “An’ I should get his side of what happened – not a formal interview, not if he’s not up to it, but something.” 

“That’s fine. Just keep Bennett informed, all right? And maybe she should be the one to do the formal interview. I’m not questioning your impartiality, Robbie,” Innocent adds, her tone brisk. “I’m thinking like someone preparing a case for CPS. We don’t want to give the defence anything to work with.”

She’s right, of course, and he buries his frustration with a “Yes, Ma’am.”

James, now sitting upright and on top of the covers, looks very happy to see him the next morning; both his lips and his eyes smile, and that’s fairly unusual these days. Right. He was going to try to do something about that, wasn’t he? One of the promises he made to be fulfilled if James recovered. He never did get around to asking James why he was thinking about voluntary redundancy in the first place, back when he himself was considering early retirement. Or what it was, besides his personal experience as a high-IQ child, that made James identify so much with Zoe Suskin.

“Brought you a few things,” he says, putting the bag down on the bedside cabinet. “Change of clothes, wash things, razor, couple of books – oh, and your ipod. Thought that might cheer you up.”

“Thank you, sir.” There’s both surprise and sincerity in the lad’s voice. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Ah, wasn’t any trouble.” He pulls the visitor’s chair closer to the bed and sits down. “S’pose you want to know what happened an’ who wanted you dead.”

“I do, but I think getting out of this-” James tugs at the hospital gown, a distasteful grimace on his face. “-is higher on the priority list.”

Robbie grins. “Not up your sartorial standards, eh, man?”

The curl of James’s lip is answer enough. Smothering a grin, Robbie reaches for the bag he brought and pulls out a T-shirt and jeans, then looks at James, frowning. “You’re gonna need to let me help you, with that wrist.”

They’ve seen each other in various states of undress before: changing at the gym or at the office on the many times one of them’s got clothing soiled or destroyed on the job, or even at one or other’s flat, briefing while the other gets dressed to save time. Robbie’s not at all sure what makes him avert his eyes this time when James has shed the unflattering blue gown. But he pushes aside the unfamiliar reaction, instead carefully easing the T-shirt over James’s broken wrist, then stepping back until his help’s required again to fasten the jeans.

As he straightens, he notices a pink flush on James’s face. Exertion? Or...? He shakes his head faintly. Stupid notion.

“Don’t suppose you brought me any ciggies?” James asks, now standing barefoot and searching through the bag. He doesn’t need to wait for an answer, exclaiming in triumph as he finds the half-empty packet Robbie threw into the front pocket.

“Can’t smoke them in here.”

James turns, one eyebrow raised in a trademark Hathaway put-down. “Yes, I completely forgot that this is a hospital, and that in any case smoking indoors in any public building has been against the law for more than ten years,” he says, sarcasm leaching from his laconic tone. Lightning-fast, his expression changes to a cajoling look. “Can we go for a walk outside?”

Robbie frowns. “Sure you’re up to that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me other than my wrist. They’re being over-cautious.” James pockets the cigarettes and his lighter, then, one-handed, drops his trainers to the floor and attempts to shove his feet into them. Without a word, Robbie kneels and helps him into them and does up the laces.

“The doctor said I could get up and walk around,” James says as Robbie stands again. “But only if I had someone with me.”

“No wonder you were so pleased to see me.” He waves away James’s instant protest. “Get on with you. And come on – I haven’t got all day.”

He watches James like a hawk as they walk along the corridor and then downstairs in the lift. And the bloke’s right: there doesn’t seem to be much wrong with him at all. He’s walking normally, nothing unsteady about his gait, no issues with his breathing. Mind, the bruises around his neck have almost faded now. No doubt about it, the lad’s tough.

Outside, in the courtyard provided for patients and visitors, Robbie explains the side of events James doesn’t know: discovering that he was missing, finding him, tracking down Cox and putting the pieces together. He doesn’t mention Cox’s version of the attack; for evidence purposes, James has to tell his own story without being influenced by any other version.

When he’s finished, and James has lit his second cigarette, by silent mutual consent they sit on a bench. Robbie’s about to offer to go inside and get some coffee, but James speaks first. “You need to interview me, don’t you, sir?”

“Not me. Too close, Innocent says, and she’s right. I’ll be sending Bennett over later, if you’re up to it.”

“Bennett?” James’s brows draw together, before he looks away briefly to exhale a cloud of smoke.

“You don’t know her? DS Bennett. Innocent assigned her as me temporary bagman.”

“What?” James’s tone is completely flat, and his lips thin.

“Temporary,” Robbie repeats, although he’s remembering Innocent’s comment about considering reassigning James to another DI when he returns. He’s not altogether sure how serious she is, but it’s probably best to cross that bridge when they come to it. He can talk her out of it, if necessary. “We didn’t know how long you might be off, and Innocent said I needed someone in case I was distracted.”

“You don’t get distracted.” James takes rapid puffs of his cigarette.

“I do sometimes. Did on this investigation. Bennett caught a couple of things I missed – we might not have solved it without her.”

James mutters something Robbie can’t make out. He decides against asking his sergeant to repeat himself. He lays a hand on James’s good arm instead. “You’re me sergeant – me partner. You know I’m not lookin’ for... Well, y’know what I mean. We’re good together.”

James takes another puff. “Yeah.” He stubs out the half-finished cigarette. “I’m feeling a bit wiped out. Think I’ll go back inside.” He stands and, gaze focused somewhere over Robbie’s left shoulder, adds formally, with that distant chill in his voice that Robbie hasn’t heard in a very long time, “Thank you for coming, sir. I’ll expect Sergeant Bennett some time this afternoon, then.”

“I’ll see you back up, man,” Robbie protests, but James gives a sharp jerk of his head. 

“I can manage, and I shouldn’t take any more of your time, sir.” 

Robbie watches him leave, sighing in exasperation. He’s just bloody made clear that he’s not looking for another sergeant, that he wants James back – what more is he supposed to say?

He shakes his head and heads for the nearest exit to the car park instead.

 

***

In the end, he asks Grainger’s sergeant, Ngoti, to conduct the interview. No point making things worse with James, or sending Chris Bennett into a potentially hostile meeting. 

Ngoti taps on the office door a couple of hours later as Robbie’s working on his report for CPS. “Inspector?”

“Joe? How’d it go?”

The tall, broad sergeant steps inside. “Fine. He’s an excellent witness, but it’s no less than I’d expect. For someone who was fighting for his life at the time, he’s got a very clear recollection of everything that happened. He was even able to describe Cox and Lyons well enough that I’d be able to recognise them. Seemed surprised that I’d come, though.”

Robbie shrugs. “I said it’d be Bennett, but changed me mind. I wanted her working on something else.” It’s a white lie, but there are rare occasions when it’s best to avoid the truth.

“Anyway, I’ll get the tape transcribed – you should have it by the end of the day.” Ngoti turns to leave, then pauses. “Almost forgot. Hathaway asked me to give you this.” He pulls an envelope from his pocket and hands it over.

On the front, in James’s unmistakeable scrawl, is _DI R. Lewis_. Robbie nods his thanks at Ngoti, then waits until the sergeant’s left the room before opening the envelope. Inside is a folded sheet of paper.

_Sir –_

_You didn’t bring me my phone. Though I suppose it’s evidence now and I’ll have to get a new one. It’s a nuisance, because if I’d had it I could have phoned or texted you instead of having to write this – which is a lot more difficult than you’d imagine even if it is only my left wrist that’s out of action. Don’t believe me? You try writing one-handed._

_Anyway, I’m getting off the point, which is: I was a complete twat, and I apologise. I’ll be on my best behaviour with your Sergeant Bennett, and hope to get a chance to apologise in person soon. Over a pint?_

_\- J._

Robbie’s lips twitch, and he re-reads the note before folding it and sliding it into his inside jacket pocket. “Be a couple of days before you’re ready for a pint, Sergeant,” he murmurs with a grin. “I’ll hold you to it, anyway.”

He’s just putting the finishing touches to the report an hour or so later and thinking that he could slip away early and get over to the hospital again when Bennett comes into the office. “Sir, we’ve got a callout. Body found in a cellar at Lonsdale College.”

He groans. “Aw, can’t someone else take it? I was hopin’ t’-”

Bennett’s shaking her head. “Chief Super wants you. Says you know the college.”

He was in and out of it often enough in Morse’s days, that’s true. “Bet that’s not all she said,” he mutters, getting up and pulling on his jacket. Things like hoping he won’t stir up trouble and upset the senior academics too much. Well, Innocent’s assigned him the case, so she’ll just have to accept that he’ll go wherever his investigation takes him, no matter who gets in the way.

It’s not a case Morse would have liked. The body’s in a cellar that hasn’t been regularly used since the 1970s, and by the time it was found – by a porter doing a monthly check – it had been there for at least a week. It’s going to take him ages to get the smell out of his nostrils, and the mice have done enough damage that forensic evidence could be compromised.

Laura leaves with a harried promise to “do the best I can, but I can’t guarantee anything, Robbie,” and he sends SOCO in, masked as well as gowned. Back outside, breathing fresh air again and wiping cobwebs and mice-droppings from his trousers, he directs the uniforms to seal the area, sends Bennett to interview the porter who found the body, and goes to talk to the Master.

By the time he sends Bennett home, at eight o’clock, they’ve identified the body – an Emeritus Professor of Poetry who lived alone and had a habit of only coming into college a few times a month, so no-one had missed him – and are starting to compile a list of people to interview. The preliminary cause of death is blunt force trauma to the back of the head, and Laura confirms that the body wasn’t moved, so Robbie’s already speculating that it could as easily be accidental death as murder. According to the Master, the professor was known to enjoy more than a few tipples of single malt and was frequently seen having to be supported out of the senior common room. What if he happened to stumble into the cellar and fell? 

He shakes his head. Puzzling out possible scenarios can wait until tomorrow, when SOCO will have finished and preliminary forensic reports come in. Right now, he’s going home.

A shower, change of clothes and quick microwaved meal later, he’s heading back to the hospital. It didn’t sound, from James’s note, as if the lad’s expecting him, but that’s irrelevant. If it were him stuck in hospital with no family or friends to visit, he’d appreciate someone taking the trouble to pop in. And besides, he’s finding he needs the reassurance that his sergeant is still recovering well.

When he walks into the private room, James is sitting in the visitor’s chair, in a world of his own listening to his ipod. For a moment, Robbie simply stands inside the door and watches; James really is a sight to behold when he’s so completely focused on something that the rest of the world might as well not exist. He’s seen it occasionally at work, most recently when James spent all night working on piecing together the Gaudy photos to find out who attacked Chloe Brooks.

Then he steps into James’s line of vision and waves. James’s eyes widen, and he rips the earbuds out. “Robb-” Abruptly, he breaks off, embarrassment written all over his face. “I’m sorry. Sir. I meant s-”

Robbie tries and fails to smother his amusement. “Ah, you were all right the first time.”

“Sir?” James frowns, looking puzzled, and he stands, head slightly bowed in the deferential stance Robbie hasn’t seen from him for over a year now. “I don’t-”

“How long have we been mates as well as partners? Reckon it’s past time you called me Robbie off-duty.” It’s interesting, at any rate, that the bloke thinks of him as Robbie. How long has he done that?

James runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Um. I want to apologise-”

“You already did. Forget it.” 

“If you’re sure, si- er, Robbie.”

He has to give the lad an exasperated glare, mainly because he knows James expects it, but then relaxes. “Come on. You must be dyin’ for a fag by now. And a decent coffee, I expect.”

“The nicotine more than the coffee, actually. Dr Hobson very kindly came up earlier and brought me coffee. And a pastry,” James says, following Robbie out of the room. 

They stop at the posh coffee-shop on the ground floor, and then head outside with their drinks so James can smoke. It’s dark now, but there’s enough light from the hospital buildings, as well as marker lighting around the pathway, to make it easy to see their way. He fills James in on the new case, wondering what he’ll make of it – not that Bennett’s not doing a solid job so far, but she’s not James, and he can’t toss ideas around with her the same way he’s got used to doing with James. 

It’s a useful discussion. James has questions: how could Winters – the professor – have got into the cellar in the first place? If no-one else was involved, how come the door was locked? That second one’s easy; although the cellar itself isn’t checked regularly, college security does daily rounds. If a door’s supposed to be locked and is found open, it’s checked quickly for occupants and then locked. The security guards are on Bennett’s interview list for the following day. The cellar’s not officially used, but could that make it a suitable venue for some unofficial use? Is there any independent corroboration that Winters was as much of a drinker as the Master suggested, since there wasn’t much alcohol in his system? Is there anyone who benefits from his death?

It’s not that none of the questions had occurred to Robbie so much that having the opportunity to talk them through helps his thought process. By the time he glances at his watch and realises it’s almost eleven, he knows he’s got a clearer idea of where he’ll start in the morning.

“Best get you back upstairs before they send out a search-party.”

James pulls a face. “I suppose so. It’s ridiculous, really. I’m perfectly fine.”

“That’ll be why they told me you slept for a couple of hours after Joe Ngoti was here,” Robbie points out. “You just came out of a coma twenty-four hours ago. Think you just might need to take it easy for a bit.”

James pulls a face. “I can go home tomorrow, apparently.”

“Yeah, I heard.” Robbie rests his hand in the small of James’s back as they stroll to the doors. “Not sure about goin’ home, though, not with that wrist. You’ll stay at mine for a few days, all right?”

“That’s not-” James begins, but subsides as he meets Robbie’s stern gaze. “Thank you,” he amends.

“I almost forgot.” Robbie reaches into his coat pocket to find James’s phone. “Here you go. It’s not needed for evidence – it was wiped clean. No prints. I’ll phone you tomorrow to let you know when I’m coming for you.”

James nods. “Goodnight, s- Robbie.” He pauses, his gaze on Robbie and hesitation in his eyes. Robbie shakes his head. “Oh, for – c’mere, soft lad.”

He wraps his arms around James, feeling the embrace returned and James’s face pressed briefly against the top of his head, before they release each other again. Must be feeling a bit lost, Robbie thinks as he steps away from his sergeant and watches James disappear inside. Being in hospital can do that to you. 

He’ll be all right once he’s out of hospital and things get back to normal.

 

***

It’s close to six in the evening before Robbie’s able to pick James up the next day. They’ve been in touch a few times, though, starting with a text as Robbie was just starting up his computer:

 _Bet you miss me bringing you coffee_

Shaking his head, Robbie tapped out laboriously – he hates those tiny keyboards:

_you better not be putting pressure on that wrist_

Two minutes later, the reply came:

_I am now apparently equally dexterous one-handed as two. Does that impress you? Does me._

_Show-off_ , he replied, before getting on with the job. It’s been nice, though, being able to send the occasional text as the day progressed. 

By the time they get to Robbie’s flat, it’s after seven: a stop-off at James’s place to pack some things, and then to pick up their takeaway: Indian because James can eat it with one hand. No matter what he says about being able to manage, Robbie’s going to make sure he takes care of that broken wrist.

The good thing is that it’s a clean break. Reducing and setting it was straightforward, apparently, and given James’s general state of health and fitness the orthopaedic surgeon who treated him thinks that he might even be ready to lose the cast in around four weeks, as long as he doesn’t overdo things.

It’s a quiet evening, and an early night for both of them. There’s a lot Robbie wants to talk to James about, not least the emergency contact thing and why he’s seemed so withdrawn lately, but this isn’t the time. Not when the poor bloke’s only just got out of hospital. Anyway, he suspects that could end up being an awkward conversation, knowing James, and he’s too bloody drained after the last few days to cope with that right now. 

It’s just nice at the moment to have company – and a relief to have James safe and almost well, and with no danger of any long-term ill-effects. They really should do this more often. And maybe he really should start looking for a flat with a second bedroom, to offer the lad something better than the couch for occasional overnight stays.

The next morning, James insists on going into work. Much against Robbie’s better judgement, he finally agrees, but insists that it’ll be desk-work only until he’s convinced that James isn’t going to keel over from going back too soon. “You keep sayin’ you’re fine, but that was a bloody nasty head injury. Not to mention the rest of it.”

James pats the – now much smaller – bandage at the back of his head. “Doesn’t hurt a bit. And, before you ask, I don’t feel at all dizzy or lightheaded. I’d be bored out of my mind if I had to stay here – or at my place, in case you think I’m insulting your home.”

“Fair enough.” He’ll take James’s word for it – mostly, though he intends to keep a sharp eye on his sergeant. It’ll be off home for him the instant James shows any sign of being tired or in pain. “Come on, then.”

At the station, they’ve just passed the Chief Super’s office when Innocent calls them back. “My office, please, both of you.”

She gives James a concerned once-over as they follow her in, but after an intensive grilling as to whether he’s really fit to be back – he’ll make sure it’s desk duties only, Robbie assures her – her expression changes, and Robbie feels his heart sinking as he suspects he knows what’s coming.

“You haven’t forgotten what we talked about the other day, I hope?” Innocent says, her gaze chiding. “James, in case Inspector Lewis hasn’t told you, I think it’s for the best that the two of you are split up. I’m reassigning you, and I expect you to get started on preparing for your inspector’s exams. A DI has just been transferred to this station from Gateshead, and you’ll work with him from now on.”

Robbie glances at James, whose silence is making him anxious about how he’s taking this. His sergeant’s not looking at Innocent, but at him, his eyes blazing with unspoken but evident betrayal.

 

***  
 _tbc_


	5. Separated

“Ma’am-” Robbie tries to protest, but Innocent won’t let him.

“We’ve discussed this, Lewis, as I know you remember. Whether it’s your doing or not, working with you appears to be holding Hathaway’s career back. I’ve already briefed DI Peterson, and he’ll make every effort to have Hathaway ready for the OSPRE exams within the next few months. You’ve got a very capable DS working with you already, and that’s the end of it. I expect you to have her moved into your office by noon. Hathaway, you’ll find DI Peterson’s office upstairs. He’s specialising in gangs and civil unrest, which will be good experience for you.”

“I don’t wish to be disrespectful, Ma’am, but I really-”

“James, I’m well aware that neither you nor DI Lewis want you to be reassigned, but my decision on the matter is final.” Innocent opens a file on her desk. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I really do have a lot to be getting on with – as do you.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Robbie says, though he doesn’t bother to hide his unhappiness. James says nothing; he just turns abruptly and stalks out of the office.

They walk in uncomfortable silence to their shared office – well, his and Bennett’s office now, he supposes. Bennett’s already in the main office; she nods at him but – probably reading the expression on his face – says nothing. But the rest of the team create enough of a fuss, calling out to James, welcoming him back, asking how he is. “Fine, thanks. Glad to be back, just want to get back to normal,” he says briefly in response before following Robbie into the office.

Once inside, Robbie closes the door and faces James, who’s immediately started going through his desk drawers, taking things out and dumping them on the top. He’s keeping his face averted from Robbie, and Robbie can’t tell if it’s anger or hurt that’s foremost.

“James.” No reaction; James doesn’t even look up. Robbie persists regardless. “The only reason I didn’t tell you is because I never thought she actually meant it. Or, I suppose, even if I thought she might I was sure I could talk her out of it. Never made sense to me that she’d break up an effective partnership, not with our clear-up rates. I was almost as blindsided as you were in there.”

James straightens slowly, and after a moment turns to face him. Whatever he sees in Robbie’s expression seems to convince him; he nods. “I see, sir.”

“Look, there’s nothing we can do for now. I’ll keep working on her, try and convince her that we’re a better team together.” He contemplates offering to help James pack up his belongings, but thinks better of it. It won’t be appreciated.

James shrugs. “Sounds like you and DS Bennett are doing all right.” He turns away and starts piling his things, one-handed, into an evidence box. Abruptly, he turns back again. “What was that rubbish about you holding me back?”

Robbie exhales before answering. “Something I should’ve done something about before now. Promotion. You always changed the subject whenever I mentioned OSPRE. Let you get away with it, but I should have forced the issue.”

James shuts a desk drawer; it’s clear he’s barely restraining himself from slamming it. “Didn’t you tell Innocent that it’s me holding back, not you?”

“Doesn’t matter whether I did or I didn’t, does it? She’s right. I should’ve tried harder.” Robbie goes over to his own desk.

“I’m just not-” James begins, but breaks off. “I don’t want to do this, sir. I don’t want to make things difficult for you, but I’m so tempted to walk back into her office and resign.”

He stares at James, appalled. “Don’t do that. It’d be a crying shame. Look, it can’t be that bad. I haven’t met Peterson – we must’ve been out when Innocent did the usual meet an’ greet – but it sounds like you won’t be working with him for more than about six months anyway. And you know I’m coming up to retirement age in a couple of years so even without promotion you wouldn’t have been with me that much longer.”

He stops as something occurs to him again. _If you go, I go_. Wasn’t he just wondering the other day whether James was even intending to stay on after his retirement?

“Look,” he adds after a moment, “we can talk about this later, yeah? At home, tonight.”

“Yeah.” James returns to his packing, then walks out of the office. When he comes back, he’s got a DC with him, who proceeds to pick up the two boxes and carry them out. “Good luck with the case, sir,” James says, professional and businesslike, and then he’s gone.

Robbie stays where he is for several minutes after the door closes, thinking. It’s just possible that Innocent is right and that this is what James needs. It’s not good for him to get so attached to working with one person – policing’s all about teamwork, learning to work effectively with whoever’s available. He didn’t want to be partnered with Morse at first, and look how that worked out? This Peterson could turn out to be very good for James.

The bloke’s new to the station – from his neck of the woods, from what Innocent said – and it’s surprising that they haven’t met yet. It’s tempting to go upstairs now and introduce himself, but that would be the wrong thing to do. Later, when it’s going-home time, since he’s driving James anyway.

He stands, takes a long look at the empty desk on the other side of the office, then goes to brief the team on the staffing changes and tell Bennett that it’s time to move her things inside.

 

***

Later, taking a short break at a café on the Broad for a sandwich with Bennett, Robbie’s finding it difficult to keep his mind completely on the case. They’ve made some progress: aside from Laura confirming that Winter’s death was murder, they’ve narrowed down the list of possible suspects and are focused on finding the murder weapon. But now he’s finding himself wondering what James is up to, and missing the back-and-forth quips they’d have exchanged over lunch while dissecting the case.

“Sir?” 

Robbie blinks and turns to Bennett. “Yeah?” By her expression, it’s not the first time she’s tried to attract his attention. “Sorry, Chris. Lost in thought.”

“I noticed.” She grimaces. “Look, I know you didn’t get a choice about working with me-”

“Don’t.” He cuts across her. “You’re good, an’ I like working with you. It’s just...” He shakes his head. It’s not her fault, and he won’t let her feel awkward about this. “It’s not your fault, so let’s just leave it an’ focus on learning to work together, all right?”

“You and Sergeant Hathaway have been together a long time, I know that,” Chris continues. “It’s okay if the change takes a bit of getting used to. It’s just... I know I’m going to be different from him, so you’ll need to let me know if there’s things I’m not doing that you’ve come to expect from your bagman, sir.”

He nods. “Just like you’ll have to let me know if I’m assuming you know things that you don’t.”

“I was surprised he came back to work so soon,” Bennett says as they leave the café. “Didn’t he only get out of hospital yesterday?”

“Insisted he’s fine. But he’ll be confined to desk duties for a bit.” Robbie glances at his phone; he’s half-expected at least a text from James, but there’s been nothing. But then that’s probably for the best. They’ve both got new partners now, and it’s better for James if he focuses on getting to know DI Peterson and settling into his new role. The only thing that worries him – well, that worries him most – is that he’s not around to keep an eye on the lad. He shouldn’t be back this soon. Will Peterson even notice if he’s not fit to be at work?

Bennett’s phone rings; she listens for a few seconds, then thanks the caller. “Looks like we might have found the murder weapon, sir. Someone just fished a cricket bat out of a hedge in Lonsdale College.”

Robbie rolls his eyes, picking up the pace to get back to the car. Some murderers really are amateurs, or else they think the police are stupid. “What’s the betting we get a DNA sample from it?” he comments.

James would have had a smartarse comeback, and probably offered him odds on the likely identity of the killer. Bennett just asks, “You really think the murderer’d be that careless?”

“After more than thirty years as a copper, nothing’d surprise me,” he tells her. It’s really not her fault that she isn’t Hathaway, after all.

 

***

There is DNA on the bat – but, of course, that’s only to be expected. Presumably at some point it was used for its original purpose. But, unless it was stolen from its owner, maybe that DNA belongs to the killer. It’s a place to start, once they have a match, though there’s no guarantee that they’ll get one. The murderer could very well not be on the system.

That’s something for tomorrow, though. It’ll be at least that long before the lab gets back to them with the results. Robbie’s done all he can for today, and has no interest in wading through the latest SOCO report, this time on Winters’ house. Bennett can go through it.

“Bedtime reading,” he says, depositing it on her desk. “See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, sir.” She glances at him only briefly, turning her attention back to her work. She’s got the makings of a bloody good detective – probably inspector material in a couple of years. Maybe that’s his retirement project, Robbie thinks: get Chris ready for the OSPRE exams, then hand in his papers. Not how he was expecting to go, but then he’s learned plenty of times that life rarely works out as you expect.

He looks down at his watch as he heads for the stairs. Half-five. More than past knocking-off time for someone who’s gone back to work too soon. If James has any sense, he’ll have had someone give him a lift back to Robbie’s flat. He does have a key, after all.

But, when he finds Peterson’s office, James is still there, staring intently at his computer screen. It’s Peterson, a casually-dressed bloke probably ten or so years younger than Robbie, who notices him and stands, hand outstretched. “Hi! I’m guessing you’re Robert Lewis? Alan Peterson. Nice to meet you.”

Not a Northerner, then. And a bit over-hearty, isn’t he? Robbie crosses the room, taking the hand Peterson’s extending to him. “You too.” He glances back at James, now watching the two of them. “Came to take Hathaway home. Don’t know if he told you, but he’s only just out of hospital. Shouldn’t even be here, by rights.”

“Yeah, can’t have you collapsing on me, Jim.” Peterson smiles at James, who Robbie can tell is barely suppressing a wince. Course, he used to call Hathaway _Jim_ as well, until he realised the bloke didn’t like it. Not that he ever said, of course. Typical. “Go on, off with you. Robert, how about a drink some time? I’d welcome a chance to chat. You have quite a reputation around here.”

“Can’t imagine why, and it’s Robbie. James here’s the one who doesn’t go in for shortening his name.” 

“Ah.” Peterson frowns slightly, looking troubled. “Should’ve told me, James.”

“It’s quite all right, Inspector.” James switches off his computer and stands. “I appreciate you coming to get me, sir.” 

Robbie doesn’t say anything as they descend the stairs, but outside, once James lights a cigarette, he stands next to him, hands in pockets. “I’m not your governor any more. Not me you should be calling sir.”

James takes a deep puff, then turns away to exhale. “I know, that was childish.”

He wants to know what Peterson’s like, and why James feels like being childish to him, but doesn’t ask. He won’t later, either. It’d be unprofessional, for one thing; and for another, he has to leave James to work this new relationship out on his own.

“Come on, finish that an’ let’s get home.” 

In the car, he glances at James before starting the engine. Grey around the eyes, and he’s frowning as if he has a headache. “You should’ve gone home hours ago. If you didn’t want a uniform driving you back to my place, you could have asked me.”

Head thrown back against the headrest, James protests unconvincingly, “I’m fine.” At Robbie’s snort, he adds, “All right, my head hurts and my wrist’s aching a little, but I’ll be fine once I’ve taken one of the pills the hospital gave me.”

At the flat, as James finds his painkillers, Robbie sighs. “You didn’t even take them to work with you.”

“I will tomorrow.”

“If you look this tired tomorrow, you’re stayin’ at home,” Robbie retorts without thinking, then fully expects James to point out that he’s not James’s parent; not even his governor any more. 

“Home?” is all James says, eyebrows raised. Right. This isn’t James’s home.

“Close enough for now,” Robbie says – strange how it actually feels so natural having him here. “I’m going to get changed. You need any help?”

“I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

By the time Robbie comes back, James is in jeans and a T-shirt and is managing, with a bit of difficulty, to hang his suit up. Robbie considers offering help, but lets it go – James seems to need to regain his independence, despite being only barely out of hospital. Over dinner, at James’s prompting and since the lad’s looking more himself, Robbie updates him on the day’s developments in the case. When he’s finished, James gives him a look which he knows means he’s missing something. “What?”

“Well, doesn’t it all seem a bit convenient?”

Robbie stares back. “How d’you mean?”

“Body found a couple of days ago, after being dead a week. Now, conveniently, the murder weapon turns up today, in a place where it’s not inconceivable that it could have been found any time in the past ten days.”

Robbie frowns. Whether James is right or not, this is the kind of discussion he’s missed. “I’ve had uniforms searching the college from top to bottom the last two days.”

James nods. “I’d want to know how they came to find it, but that’s just me.”

“I’ll find out. Might be nothing, but...Worth checking.”

“Yeah.” James looks down, and plays with his food for a few moments. If it wouldn’t be completely unprofessional, and not at all aimed at helping James to adapt to his new boss, Robbie would’ve told him that he’s equally frustrated that they can’t work on this investigation together.

Time to change the subject. He’s about to raise James’s reluctance to go for promotion, but stops himself. The last thing he wants is to make the bloke feel that he’s being interrogated – that Robbie’s been waiting all day to bring this up. Later, yeah.

“Coffee and some crap telly?”

James raises an eyebrow in the familiar mocking expression. “Be still, my heart.”

They make the coffee together, something that they’ve done so often it feels just as normal as when Robbie’s doing it on his own, just for himself. A few months ago, while they were working on that case involving the friars, James arrived at the flat one evening with a case update and a large carrier bag. The bag contained a gleaming – and, Robbie’s convinced, pretty expensive – stainless steel cafetiere. “To say congratulations on impending grandfatherhood,” was the explanation.

“And not at all because you hate instant?” Robbie quipped gruffly in response.

“A present can be practical as well, can’t it?” James smiled slyly as he unpacked the cafetiere, making clear that it was going to be used there and then.

Since then, although Robbie still makes instant for himself, when it’s the two of them they always use fresh coffee and the cafetiere. James has trained him to keep fresh grounds in the freezer, and often supplies the coffee himself.

Coffee made, Robbie gestures towards the sofa and carries the mugs over. He settles into his usual position in the centre, only realising as James slides in beside him that this means – has always meant – that he doesn’t leave the bloke a lot of room, and that their thighs and shoulders are pressed together. Still, James doesn’t seem to mind, and he never has, he supposes, or he’d have changed his habit before now.

James already has the remote and is flicking through channels, stopping as he finds a programme they’ve watched a couple of times before, a detective series set in the West Country. Definitely qualifies as crap telly, and Robbie takes a drink of coffee as James settles back next to him.

It’s the usual coincidence-laden mess that bears no resemblance at all to real police work – though Robbie will admit that the scenery is pretty. And some people might think the inspector character’s sidekick is pretty, though as always she’s dressed completely impractically for police work. The best thing about watching this, though, is James’s sardonic running commentary as the episode unfolds.

“I don’t believe it. Is he even more of a moron than I thought?” James says now, his shoulder shifting against Robbie as he laughs silently.

“Hush, now. Look, he’s about to make his big arrest.”

James glances Robbie’s way. “Yeah, with compromised evidence and a great big question-mark over the motive. He’ll never make that stick.”

Robbie meets James’s gaze, shared amusement in his eyes. “Not to mention he’s got no back-up, an’ if this bloke’s really the murderer he’s got a weapon somewhere he’s not worried about using.”

James rolls his eyes. “Why do we bother watching this stuff?”

Robbie grins. “You love mocking it. Don’t deny it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. But if they start making it too easy, it’ll stop being fun.”

“True.” The closing titles are playing; Robbie leans forward to grab the remote and turns the TV off. Time for the serious conversation.

“So, out with it, why don’t you want to go for promotion? Innocent’s right about one thing: you are ready. You’ve been ready for over a year. I know I should’ve pushed it, but I thought maybe you needed time to get used to the idea, so I let it slide. Probably a mistake, that.”

James actually looks blindsided. He shifts slightly on the sofa, and Robbie clamps his hand on the bloke’s knee. “Don’t run away from this.”

James’s lips thin for a moment, then he shakes his head, but stays where he is. “You don’t need to get involved in this – as you reminded me earlier, you’re not my governor any more.” He shrugs as he finishes, a clear attempt to make it appear unimportant, but it’s not one of his more convincing attempts.

So James thinks he’s no longer Robbie’s responsibility, does he? And that means what? Robbie’s got no reason to care about him? Idiot.

“Wasn’t this morning either when I said we could talk about it later, was I?” Robbie points out. “An’ besides, if you think that’s the only reason I’m asking, then you should know better than that.”

James looks away.

“What, you think I was only paying lip-service when I said we’re mates the other evening? Six years we’ve worked together. I reckon over that time neither of us has spent as much time in or out of work with anyone else. And in case you were wondering, I don’t invite you for a pint or make you welcome in me flat just because of our working relationship.”

It takes a moment or two, but James’s posture relaxes and he turns back to meet Robbie’s gaze. “Thank you. I hoped – well, I know it’s how I’ve thought of you, but I wasn’t sure. It’s the sort of thing you’d do anyway because you’re a nice bloke.”

“I’m not that nice,” Robbie says dryly. “Anyway, as your friend, I’d like to understand what your problem is with promotion, see if I can help. I can do that. Can’t get involved between you and Peterson, but you’re too professional to ask that anyway.”

He’s pretty sure that James understood that, but there’s no harm spelling it out.

When James doesn’t answer after a bit, Robbie stands and picks up the coffee-mugs. “Beer? Or can you have one with those painkillers?”

“They’re not that strong.” James looks at the label. “Alcohol’s not contraindicated.”

When Robbie’s back, James doesn’t say anything at first, but Robbie knows him well enough to wait him out. And, finally, he does speak. “I don’t think it’ll be much of a surprise to you that I’ve been thinking for a while about whether this is the career I want any more. Or maybe ever did, really.”

More of a surprise than James obviously thinks. Robbie puts his beer down. “You’re serious, aren’t you? I mean, I know what you said when I was thinking about retiring, but I didn’t know you’d felt that way longer than that.”

James dips his head. “I joined the police because I wasn’t sure what else to do at the time. You know I’d just left the seminary. I took Civil Service exams and applied for the police, and took the first offer I got. Not the best way to make career decisions, of course.” He tilts his head back and takes a long drink. “I’ve loved working with you, si-” He smiles crookedly. “Robbie. Without you, I’d have handed in my papers a long time ago. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you, or if I ever would have without what’s happened in the last few days, but you are a _brilliant_ mentor and governor. I’ve learned so much from you, about detection and so many other things. I wasn’t joking, either, when I said no-one else would understand me. You’re not bothered by the things other people hate about me, and you always push me to do better. So if you’re still wondering why I don’t want to go for promotion, or why I might end up leaving the force – you’re the reason.”

It takes Robbie a while to come up with any response at all, and when he does it’s not particularly articulate. “Me?” 

James shrugs, his body shifting against Robbie’s again. “I probably didn’t mean that the way it sounds. It’s simple enough: what I’ve loved about the job is working with you. If I’m promoted, or if you retire-” 

“When,” Robbie points out. “Not gettin’ any younger over here.”

“When.” James nods. “Point is, I won’t be able to work with you then, and I don’t know whether what’s left is enough for me.”

Robbie hasn’t got an answer for that. Oh, there are plenty of things he could say – probably _should_ say, if they were having this conversation in a work context. If he were speaking as James’s governor, or as a mentor, then of course he’d be pointing out the advantages of career advancement, the opportunity to choose an area of policing to specialise in, to head up his own team. And then there’d be the managerial claptrap: obligation to the force, to the fact that so much money has been spent training him, that it’s about time he took responsibility and did his duty.

It’s all bollocks. What matters is what James wants, and if he’s really serious about this... well, Robbie won’t be the person to talk him out of it. _If_ he’s serious.

“You’re sure?” he asks finally. “I mean, it’s not just... whatever it is that’s got you being a bit of a miseryguts lately?”

He fully expects sarcasm in response to the _miseryguts_. When it doesn’t come, that’s worrying.

James just gives him a surprised look. “I am?”

“You have been, yeah. Been worried about you.”

“Oh.” After a second, James’s mouth curves into a faintly embarrassed smile. “That’s kind of you.”

Robbie feigns exasperation. “Hardly. An’ no need to get all ‘new man’ over thankin’ me, either. You tellin’ me you’ve never worried about me over the years? ‘Cause I know you’d be lying.”

Abruptly, James shifts, and then Robbie has his sergeant’s – no, his friend’s head on his shoulder, while James looks up at him with a completely exaggerated soppy grin. “It’s only because I care.”

Not the first time he’s said that, Robbie remembers, and equally facetiously on that occasion. He’d bet his pension, though, that the faint mockery is a cover for the fact that James actually means every word.

And he’s not going to touch _that_ with a ten-foot macon. Cleaver. Whatever.

Of course, James managed very neatly to avoid answering his question about whether this is how he really feels or just a passing phase. He’s about to ask it again when he realises that the head on his shoulder is now a dead weight.

James has fallen asleep. Not too surprising, really: a combination of going back to work too soon, and then alcohol on top of painkillers.

He’ll leave the lad be for a bit before waking him and making him go to bed, but not too long – he’ll end up getting a stiff neck, and Robbie’s back will start playing up. 

Right now, anyway, the silence is a relief; tonight’s been a bit of a revelation and he’s not at all sure how he feels about knowing that James thinks he’s the only reason he’s stayed in the police. And that James’s feelings for him are every bit as strong – maybe even stronger – than Robbie suspected. Admiration, yes; a bit of hero-worship, certainly. But there’s clearly a depth of attachment there that’s complete news to Robbie, and that he knows no-one’s felt for him in a very long time. Not since Val. 

James cares deeply for him. And in some ways maybe even needs him.

And now they’re not working together any more. What’s that going to mean? 

 

***

In the morning, when Robbie emerges from his bedroom, James’s duffel bag and suit carrier are by the door. James himself is dressed and ready for work.

“What’s all this?” Robbie gestures. He can’t be serious, surely? There’s no way he’s ready to cope on his own – and this, after last night?

James leans against the counter. “Time I went home. I’m _fine_ , really,” he adds quickly. “The wrist’s not that much of a problem, and I should really go home before my plants die from neglect.”

He’s too bloody proud, he is. Can’t let anyone – even the person he’s been closest to for the last six years – see him admit to needing help. “Don’t talk nonsense. You shouldn’t even be back at work, let alone managing on your own.”

James pulls a face. “I’m fine. No headache, no dizziness, no other symptoms. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” 

Robbie sighs inwardly, but he knows better than to push too hard. “You still can’t drive.”

“I’ll figure something out. Even if I have to commandeer a squad car to pick me up.”

“Don’t be daft.” Robbie moves to put the kettle on. “I’ll come an’ get you. Drop you home too, if I’m not off on a case.”

James looks uncomfortable. “I really don’t want to put you to any-”

“Don’t you bloody dare finish that.” Robbie grabs the box of cereal and throws it at James, taking care to aim at his right hand. “Shut up and eat your breakfast.” 

He does as he’s told. It’s as they’re carrying the breakfast dishes to the sink that Robbie tells himself to stop being a bloody idiot. It’s been bothering him ever since James went to bed last night that he let the lad tell him how much working together has meant to him, and by implication how much their friendship means. And what did he say in return? Sweet bloody fuck all. It’s not as if there’s nothing to say, even. He managed to say it at the hospital, didn’t he, when James was unconscious. Why wasn’t he able to say it last night when it mattered? Why couldn’t he even tell the lad that he’s just as bothered by Innocent splitting them up as he knows James is?

“James-” he begins, but Hathaway cuts across him.

“Robbie - erm... I just wanted to say pay no attention to anything I might have said last night. I was a bit... tired and emotional, as the euphemism goes. Probably shouldn’t have had that beer on top of painkillers after all.”

Robbie frowns. What’s this all about?

He’s trying to come up with a tactful way of asking what the hell’s going through James’s head now when James walks past him and picks up his duffel bag. “Would you mind getting my suit-carrier?” he asks, and walks out the door.

For a moment, Robbie’s rooted to the spot. Then he shakes his head, resigned. It’s probably just as well he said nothing. Not if there’s gonna be any chance that James will get over the way he’s feeling at the moment and adjust to working with Peterson. He’s a good copper – one of the best – and he shouldn’t throw away his career just because one little thing’s changed about the job.

Maybe it’s best that James doesn’t realise what working with him meant to Robbie – that way he won’t realise that Robbie also hates that they’re not working together any more.

 

***

_tbc_


	6. Avoidance

At the station, James thanks him so politely that Robbie wants to strangle him, then jogs up the additional flight of stairs towards his new office. “I’ll come for you around six,” Robbie calls after him.

James pauses at the half-landing. “No need to come up. Just text me when you’re ready to leave.”

“Okay,” he agrees, but James has already disappeared around the corner.

He stands for a moment staring at the empty space where his former sergeant was just a moment ago, then takes a deep breath and makes his way to his office.

Bennett’s not there yet, and he frowns before reminding himself that he did give her that report to read last night. Just because James is a workaholic doesn’t mean he has a right to expect that Chris will be as well – and of course she shouldn’t be. Anyway, she’s got two young kiddies, and a husband who’s also a copper. Bound to be a bit difficult getting off to work sometimes.

He calls Forensics to check on the DNA report on that cricket bat – both on the blood found on the blade and any prints that might be on the handle and shoulder. Not yet, he’s told, but maybe later today.

Bennett rushes in then, all apologies for being late, which he brushes aside, asking instead if there was anything of interest in the SOCO report. Her face falls. “I’m really sorry, sir. Mikey – my youngest – was sick last night and I didn’t get it finished.”

It’s a battle to squash down his irritation. Damn it, he wanted that report analysed, but it’s not as if he doesn’t know what kids can be like when they’re sick. All the same, when Morse sent him home with stuff to read when he was a sergeant he always got it done, sick kids or neglected wife regardless, even if it meant staying up late when everyone else was in bed. And no matter how much work he piled on James...

Ah, he has to stop thinking like that. Stop being a stick-in-the-mud, as Lyn’s always telling him, and if he can’t embrace change he just needs to learn to live with it.

 

***

There is something in the SOCO report. Stuck inside one of the books piled on Winters’ desk – which Bennett did check, and she’s so embarrassed about missing it that he can’t say more than a tart reminder to be more careful next time – was a letter from a Fellow of Lonsdale, accusing Winters of trying to destroy his reputation via a whispering campaign in the Senior Common Room. It’s dated a little less than a month ago.

“We need to-” Robbie begins, but Bennett’s already on the phone, getting contact information for the Fellow, Professor Paul Thompson.

Thompson’s one of those _wouldn’t hurt a fly_ types, the sort of bloke it’s hard to imagine even raising his voice. Fifty-something, tall and extremely thin, with wispy grey hair and a studious air. He admits writing the letter, but insists that he regretted it soon after, and that he tried to talk the matter through with Winters a few days later.

“You mean you were wrong?” Robbie asks.

“No.” Mild-mannered he might be, but he doesn’t blow with the winds. “I believe that I was absolutely correct. I simply have an extreme distaste for conflict.”

Robbie nods, glancing at Bennett as her cue to ask a question. She meets his gaze, her own calm, waiting. Damn. He’s forgotten what it’s like to work with someone who hasn’t known him long enough to be attuned to his moods and signals. He turns back to Thompson. “Do you play cricket, sir?”

He seems surprised by the change of subject. “Not for some time, though, yes, I used to.”

“Have your own bat?”

“Yes, I do.” Thompson’s still puzzled; Robbie’s watching him carefully and can’t see any sign of stress or alarm.

“Mind showing it to us?” That’s Bennett. Good.

“Of course not, but why?” Thompson starts to move towards the study door.

“Just out of interest.” Robbie keeps his voice casual. “We’re pursuing a number of lines of enquiry.

“It’s under the stairs,” Thompson says, walking down the hall. He opens the door, pokes his head inside, and then back out again, frowning. “That’s odd.”

“What is?”

“It should be hanging from a hook on the back wall, but it’s not there.”

“Let me see, sir.” Bennett steps forward, looks inside, then steps into the cupboard. A few second later, she emerges and looks straight at Robbie. “Definitely not there, sir.”

Robbie looks back at her with a meaningful nod. She doesn’t respond. With an inward sigh, he mimes using a phone. Turning to Thompson, he says, “I’m going to have to get a team over here to search your house and grounds, sir, and in the meantime we’re going to need you to come down to the station and wait.”

Bennett gets it then; she makes the call and arranges the search.

 

***

“What d’you think?” he asks her twenty minutes later, after a squad car’s driven Thompson off, still protesting that he has no idea why he’s being taken in. 

“Looks like we’ve got a prime suspect, sir, doesn’t it? If Forensics show his prints on the bat, we’ve got him for murder.”

He pulls a face. “Doesn’t it all seem a bit... convenient?”

“Sorry, sir?” Clearly she doesn’t.

“We find the bat. Then we find the letter. And now the letter-writer’s cricket bat is missing. Oh, and I fully expect to find Thompson’s prints on the bat – I’m absolutely convinced our missing bat is the murder weapon. What I’m not convinced about is that Thompson’s our murderer.”

He knows James would agree. It just doesn’t feel right, and it wasn’t feeling right even before he met Thompson and concluded that the bloke’s not a murderer. Even pushed to his limit, the most this bloke would do is write futile letters. He’d never kill.

Bennett’s shaking her head. “I don’t see why he can’t be, sir. If the evidence all stacks up...”

The evidence does stack up; the forensic report shows Thompson’s prints on the handle and shoulder and Winters’ blood on the blade, as well as some fibres identified as worn leather – not too unusual, as some amateur batsmen do wear gloves. He’s worn them himself on occasion. But Robbie’s still not convinced, and after she watches the interview Innocent agrees with him. “Someone trying to set him up, you think?” she asks.

“Looks like it. Now we’ve got to figure out who and why.”

 

***

They’re no further forward by knocking-off time, at which point he ignores James’s instruction and jogs upstairs to Peterson’s office. “Ready to go, James?”

For a brief instant, there’s an expression of sheer relief on James’s face, before his impassive mask is back in place. “If that’s okay with you, sir?” he says, looking to Peterson.

“Course, James, you go on.” Christ, it must be tiring listening to that hearty enthusiasm all day long. “Robbie,” Peterson adds as he’s about to leave, “I can give James a lift back and forth as long as he needs it. No need to trouble yourself any further.”

“It’s not any-” he’s beginning, but James cuts across him.

“Thank you, sir. If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“None at all. I’ll be around for you at eight sharp tomorrow.”

James doesn’t say a word as they walk downstairs. Outside, he takes a long, deep breath, then moves to lean back against the station wall, head tipped back, eyes closed. After a moment, he gropes for his cigarettes and, eyes still closed, brings one to his lips before reaching for his lighter. He does open his eyes at that point, much to Robbie’s relief; he drops the hand he was reaching out to take the lighter from James.

Robbie leans against the wall next to him. “You look like you needed that.”

James turns his head, and his lips quirk in a twisted smile. “Good deduction, sir.”

“I’ll be generous, then,” Robbie concedes. “Give you five minutes to smoke it, then we’re leaving.”

In the car, Robbie drives out of the car park before asking, “How’s the head today?”

“Fine. Really. No pain at all.” James touches the back of his head, where the small bandage still stands out, stark white against his fair hair. “And before you ask, I’ve kept the sling on and not used my left hand at all. All right?”

“Good.” He concentrates on negotiating the rush-hour traffic for a minute or so, then glances back at James. “I’m still not happy about you going back to yours. It’s no trouble for you to stay at my place for a bit longer.”

“That’s not necessary. Really.” James stares straight ahead.

“It’d make me feel better.” Maybe that’ll work. But James shakes his head again.

“I’d prefer to be at home. I need to get at least some part of my life back to normal.”

Right. And since their working lives have been turned upside down, Robbie supposes it makes sense that James is trying to regain control over the aspects left to him.

“If you insist, I suppose.” He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “Pint? We’re not that far from the Coachman’s.”

“Can’t. Got homework to do.”

“Homework?”

James reaches into his jacket pocket and holds up a small USB drive. “OSPRE preparation. I have a test tomorrow, apparently.” His tone is dry enough to make Robbie need that pint. 

Robbie frowns. “What sort of test?”

“Nothing formal, just... DI Peterson wants me ready to answer questions on the first section in the morning.”

He’s never heard anything so ridiculous. “What’s he think he’s doing? You’re recovering from a head injury, man!”

James shrugs. “Told you, I’m fine.”

He can’t interfere, Robbie tells himself, much as he wants to go straight back to the station and tell Peterson what he thinks of this nonsense. Apart from ignoring the fact that James shouldn’t be back at work at all, Peterson’s treating him like a kid. Homework! And testing him? James is a grown man, not a teenager who doesn’t want to study for his GCSEs.

He says the only thing he can suggest. “Want me to help? We could go through it together. Know it helped me to have – someone ask me questions.” He almost said my lad, but managed to stop himself in time. It’s not been difficult, over the years, to realise that James can be sensitive about the age-gap between them. The one time Robbie mentioned, right back in the early months of their partnership, that his daughter was close to James’s age, the bloke went into one of his distant moods, with bloody short answers to questions and the occasional pointed aside about youth, and once a sarcastic remark about realising that Robbie might be old enough to be his father, but that didn’t mean James didn’t have opinions worth considering.

James shakes his head. “I’ve always been better studying on my own. I remember things best by reading them.”

What’s got into the bloke all of a sudden? Has Robbie suddenly become a pariah? Accepting Peterson’s offer of a lift, refusing a pint and now saying no to Robbie coming over?

Let it drop, he tells himself. Instead, he brings James up to date on the case, telling him about the letter, the missing bat and the matched prints, but mentioning nothing about his opinion of Thompson. “You think he didn’t do it,” is James’s immediate response.

“What makes you say that?”

“I know you. If you thought Thompson was guilty, you’d have told me you’d made an arrest, and I’d hear satisfaction in your voice. You’re clearly not satisfied, ergo you think someone’s stitched him up.”

“I do. I just don’t have any idea who or why.”

“You’ll get there.” James sounds completely confident. “You always do.”

 _But_ , he almost says, _I’ve always had you with me before._

He can’t say it. It’s not fair to Bennett, who’s trying hard, and it’s certainly not fair to James.

Instead, he swings the car into the small parking area outside James’s flat. “Home. I’ll bring your stuff in, then leave you to it.”

 

***

He doesn’t see or hear from James for the next couple of days. Two or three times, he’s picked up his phone and his finger’s hovered over _Hathaway_ on his speed-dial, but each time something’s prevented him from completing the call. There’s an excuse each time, but he knows what’s really stopping him: the conviction that James would prefer that he didn’t call.

Nothing’s been said, of course, but there’ve been enough signs – those he noticed the other day, plus the fact that James hasn’t been in touch at all. And this is the bloke who can text as fast one-handed as with the full use of both hands.

James might be alive, but it looks as though Stringer and Walters succeeded: he’s lost his friend anyway.

And it doesn’t make sense. Whatever about the rubbish James spouted the morning after about being drunk, he meant what he’d said about their working relationship meaning so much to him – and what that implied about their friendship as well. Now James is just turning his back on it – on him. Why? It doesn’t make sense, and for once Robbie’s detective skills aren’t getting him anywhere.

The case isn’t going any better, with no new leads. They’ve had to keep Thompson in custody – even though neither he nor Innocent believe the man’s guilty, the forensic evidence means they don’t have a choice. It doesn’t help that the date and time of death can’t be pinpointed any narrower than a twenty-four hour period, so it’s not as if Thompson can even come up with a valid alibi. Bennett keeps trying to come up with scenarios in which the academic could just have snapped, and none of them are credible, to Robbie’s mind. In the end, he sends her off to interview everyone at Lonsdale again.

On the third day after they brought Thompson in, Robbie comes into the office as usual – no new callout, which he’s thankful for – and boots his computer. First on his daily routine is email, a quick scan for anything important.

His eyes widen at one email, sent at around one in the morning. From James.

The subject-line is _Thought this might interest you_. There’s an attachment.

He clicks on the email. The text is brief. _If you’re still looking for Winters’ murderer, these might be enlightening_. It’s just signed J.

The attachments are offline copies of web pages – pages from the online version of the last four or five editions of _The Review of English Studies_. James has organised them by date. Robbie skims the first page: looks like a book review by their murder victim, Professor Winters. A couple of sentences have been highlighted – a scathing reference to some book or other by someone called Murdoch. 

Robbie’s mouth turns down at the corners. Bloody academics, got nothing better to do with their time than squabble among themselves. He closes that page and clicks on the next attachment. Another book review. He glances at the bottom of the page to see who it’s by. Charles Murdoch. He frowns: the same Murdoch that Winters was criticising? Again, there are a couple of sentences highlighted. Yes, it’s the same Murdoch. Now he’s slagging off Winter. Oh, it’s all high-minded language and that, but it’s definitely slagging off.

The rest of the pages are the same – tit-for-tat insults through the medium of book reviews. The final one of the five is written by Winter again, and he’s referring to Murdoch’s work as _sloppy, inadequately researched and unworthy of publication, let alone of being discussed in a serious community of scholars._

Robbie lets out a low whistle. There it is: their motive. And, if his gut’s not wrong, their murderer. 

Best of all, it looks like he was wrong about James. He’s not walking away from their friendship.

He needs to phone Bennett and get her to find an address for Dr Charles Murdoch, and then the two of them need to go and interview the bloke. But first...

He picks up his Blackberry and presses James’s speed-dial. It’s answered within two rings. “Inspector. Good morning.”

“Good morning to you too, cleverclogs. That was a bloody good bit of detection – for a case you’re not even working on.”

“I was curious. Had an idea and decided to check it out.” Robbie’s not fooled; he can hear the abashed pleasure in James’s voice.

“Still got to interview this Murdoch bloke, but I wanted to let you know that I’m buyin’ you a pint tonight. Tell Peterson you don’t need a lift home.”

“Sir, that’s not-”

“I’m takin’ you for a pint, James. End of story. See you later.” Robbie ends the call before James can argue the toss, then calls Bennett.

 

***

Almost eight hours later, it’s all done and dusted bar the reports. Murdoch denied everything at first, but a methodical search of his home, office and car eventually revealed a pair of leather gloves. Robbie had them sent to the lab, and fully expects to find that they’re a match for the fibres on the bat. The gloves seemed to be the catalyst for Murdoch: he folds and confesses everything.

The vitriolic exchanges in the journal left him humiliated, he said. It was okay for Winters; he’d already retired and the only reason he’d carried on dabbling in writing – no serious publications any more, just piddling little book reviews – was to gain enjoyment out of stabbing others in the back. Taking petty revenge on people he’d never liked while he was still an active academic. Murdoch had tried to defend himself, and to insert his own little jabs in response, to show Winters he wouldn’t be cowed. But it had been clear that the more Murdoch fought back the more Winters had been determined to carry on. 

“So I finally confronted him, after that last disgraceful attack,” Murdoch said, slumped in his wing-backed chair, head in his hands. “And it became clear that it was all just a game for him, nothing more. He _humiliated_ me, made me a laughing-stock, and it was a game.” Murdoch shook his head. “So when I overheard Thompson and Winters arguing in the common room – well, Winters was arguing; Thompson barely said a word – about the letter Thompson had sent him, it all seemed so easy. Acquire an object of Thompson’s to use as a weapon, lure Winters to the cellar – and that was easy, too; all it took was an anonymous note promising him valuable information – and bash him over the head. Then once the body was found all I had to do was make sure the bat was found, and that Thompson’s letter was somewhere it would be easily noticed.”

A confession, yes, but little remorse, Robbie noted. Once he heard all he needed, he walked out of the room without a word to the murderer, ordering the uniformed officers already standing by to take Murdoch in.

He’s now in custody, and Thompson has been released. A good day’s work, and all thanks to James.

James better not let him down over that pint.

He doesn’t. When Robbie texts him, he replies quickly to say he’ll meet Robbie in the car park. Twenty minutes later, they’re at the Trout, pints in front of them, and Robbie’s bringing him up to date on the case.

“Couldn’t have solved it without you. But what on earth got you looking at obscure academic journals, of all things?”

James smirks. “I doubt Professor Winters and Dr Murdoch would call _The Review of English Studies_ obscure. It is the primary refereed journal in its field, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah. An’ your field’s theology, so don’t try to pretend you have a subscription.”

James makes him wait while he sips his pint. “I was trying to think about possible motives. Nothing you’d said hinted at anything, so I tried coming at it from a different angle: what’s the sort of thing an academic might get killed for? Assuming there’s no obvious motive in his personal life, of course. And I thought back to our very first case – Ivor Denniston, remember? – and it occurred to me that in some ways academics are like actors or playwrights. They live or die by reviews. It was a long shot, but I went onto the EBSCO database, since I couldn’t get to the Bodleian-” He indicates his sling. “-and looked up English literature journals. Doing it online had an advantage: I could search for references to Winter. Took about twenty minutes, and three different journals, until I found the reviews I sent you.”

“EBSCO?” Robbie frowns. “That’s not on any of our systems. Sounds more like a university thing.” James nods. “How come you could get onto it?”

“Cambridge graduate.” James gives him a smug smile. “For a fee, I maintain a Cambridge account. I can log in and use any resource I want.”

“Smartarse.” But Robbie’s grinning from ear to ear. “Innocent’s right, you know. You should be an inspector. You’re better than me some of the time now. Just some, mind.”

His smile fades. James has looked away, his face shadowed. Damn. He was hoping things were going to get better, that James would realise he still loves police work even without Robbie as his partner. Though it can’t be easy at the moment, confined to a desk, denied the thrill of the chase, being out and about tracking down clues and examining crime scenes.

He pats James’s shoulder. “I’m gettin’ them in again. I’ll get us the menus while I’m up there.”

The mood’s changed. They stay at the pub for another hour or so, sharing dinner as well as drinks, but James is taciturn and unreceptive to all but the most bland of conversation. By the time Robbie drops him home, he’s almost glad to be parting ways for the evening.

Next time, he’ll know not to say the wrong thing again.

 

***

There isn’t a next time. Robbie emails a couple of times over the next week or two, and sends a couple of texts, suggesting a drink, but each time James has an excuse. Working, studying, even attending an exhibition on one occasion. 

He hasn’t even seen James around the station, apart from one brief glimpse of the back of his head one afternoon, and by the time Robbie’d managed to push his way through the idiots standing around idly chatting instead of getting on with work James had vanished.

There’s only one thing Robbie can conclude: his former sergeant’s avoiding him.

 

***  
 _tbc_


	7. Forcing the Issue

Four weeks after James was discharged from hospital, Robbie still hasn’t seen him other than a quick “Hi, how’s it going” in passing once or twice. He had intended to take James for his two-week check-up, but a new murder investigation got in the way. When he phoned James to explain, James was already at the outpatient clinic – seemed he’d never intended to go with Robbie.

Last week, Robbie sent a text asking when the four-week check-up was so he could put it in his diary. James replied saying he had a lift arranged, though the text continued to say that James hoped the cast would come off this time. A bit less abrupt, Robbie thought, and replied wishing James luck.

The cast did come off; he knows that thanks to another text exchange yesterday evening, after the appointment. He texted back suggesting a drink to celebrate. James never replied.

He’d just accept that James isn’t interested in staying in contact, but for one thing. Three times over the past few weeks, he’s come into the office in the morning to find a large manila envelope has been slid under the door at some point since he went home the evening before. Each time, _DI Lewis_ was printed on the front in carefully-executed letters, not close enough to James’s usual blocky scrawl to be obviously recognisable, but not too different either. 

And inside, each time, were documents relevant to his current investigation. Photocopies from books on topics such as physics, photography or Japanese mythology. Printouts of web pages. Once, a flyer for an exhibition. Always, the relevant portions were highlighted – useful and time-saving, though Robbie can’t help thinking that he misses having James read them aloud to him.

In two cases, the information was relevant and gave him a new angle which eventually led to an arrest. In the third case, James’s hypothesis was wrong, and Robbie knew it, but it set his brain thinking in a different direction again. He hasn’t solved that case yet, but he knows he will.

He doesn’t need to ask why James is doing this. It’s not that the bloke’s not getting enough intellectual stimulation working on Peterson’s gangs and protest groups investigations – though he might be. James isn’t doing this because he’s bored. It’s a connection to his former governor, the man he called his inspiration and mentor, the only reason he’s stayed in the police.

And, not for the first time, Robbie regrets not having been equally honest with James in return that night.

He did send James a text – phoning runs the risk of discovering that his call might be sent to voicemail – after the second envelope. _Should I call you my Secret Santa, or would you prefer Good Samaritan?_

By the time the reply – _I’d look ridiculous in a Santa costume_ – came, Robbie was busy at a crime scene, and then he couldn’t think of what to say. But it kept him smiling for hours.

 

***

Robbie sees James getting out of his car as he drives into the car park one morning about a week after his hospital check-up. Visible proof that he’s completely fit and healthy again. No excuse of not being able to drive stopping him from coming over to Robbie’s, or meeting for a drink, then. 

And, as he watches the tall sergeant jog into the building, he feels it again: that sense of relief, the release of an unquantifiable anxiety that’s there without him being consciously aware of it most of the time. James is safe. He hasn’t been abducted again. He’s not lying in a ditch somewhere bleeding to death, or dead in an alley with a knife between his ribs. He’s alive.

Enough’s enough. Upstairs in his office, Robbie sends an email.

_Tonight, the Trout, 6:30. If you’re not there and you’ve not had an emergency callout, I’ll know you’re avoiding me._

_\- Robbie_

There’s no answer, though discreet enquiries through one of the uniformed sergeants tells him that Peterson and Hathaway have been out of the office almost all day, attending community meetings on gang-related violence. 

Driving to the pub later, he’s almost convinced himself that James won’t be there. But just as he turns into the car park, his phone beeps to alert him to a text. He checks as soon as he’s parked.

_Table around the back – already got them in. You’re late. - J._

Late? It’s one minute after half past. Robbie gives an exasperated eye-roll and pretends he’s not smiling.

James is sitting hunched over the table, one hand wrapped around his glass, cigarette in the other. He glances up as Robbie approaches, and there’s a hint of awkwardness in his expression. Ah. Nervous, apologetic Hathaway he can deal with. Easy.

“Hello, stranger.” Robbie drops into the seat opposite. “Nearly forgot what you look like.”

James shuffles a little, clearly uncomfortable, and takes a couple of visibly shaky drags on his cigarette. Feeling guilty, not irritated by Robbie, that’s obvious. “I should’ve emailed a photo. Sir.” The honorific’s said almost as a question.

“Get away out of that. You’ll call me Robbie like a proper mate.” Robbie picks up his glass, tilts it so that it taps lightly against James’s, then raises it to his lips. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” James straightens, unfolding his long body, and drinks as well.

“Thought you’d forgotten where I live,” Robbie continues, deliberately provoking.

Putting his glass down, James says, a little stiffly, “There’s no reason to – I mean, we don’t have cases to discuss any more.”

That stings. A little more sharply than he intended, Robbie retorts, “Didn’t realise that’s the only reason you ever came round. Sorry to take up your time.”

James flushes pink. “I didn’t mean...” He shakes his head, his gaze falling to the table. “I’m sorry.”

Robbie goes with his instinct, reaching across the table to touch the back of James’s hand lightly. “S’okay. Clear the air, yeah? And have a fresh start.”

James draws in a sharp breath. “If you’re sure you still want-”

“Don’t talk nonsense. If you absolutely have to make me say it, I miss you, you tosser. Believe it or not, I even miss you mocking me.”

It’s a blink-or-you’ll-miss-it moment, but James’s lips actually twitch. “Can’t have that, can we?” He’s all serious again as he adds, “I have been avoiding you.” Again, he takes several short puffs on his cigarette.

“Yeah, worked that out all on me own, thanks,” Robbie comments dryly. “Take it you bein’ here means you’re going to stop being an idiot?” Before James can react, he adds, “Think I know why, by the way, if it helps?”

He takes James’s silence as permission to continue. “You poured your heart out that evening at my flat – an’ I said nothin’. Didn’t even tell you I’d have your back whatever you decided about the job. Had me reasons at the time, but I was wrong. Then in the pub I made a stupid flippant comment about how you should be an inspector, an’ you thought I hadn’t taken anything you said seriously.” He takes a drink. “Am I close?”

James nods, though he’s looking away again. “Not a million miles away.”

Robbie scrubs at his face. “Could tell you I said nothing ‘cause I thought if I said anything it might only make it harder for you to adjust. But that’s not the real reason.”

“And the real reason is?”

“That I’m fifty-seven an’ I’m from Newcastle. Blokes like me – we don’t talk about how we feel. Don’t know how to. An’ you an’ me – we’ve never really needed to, have we? I thought you always knew without me having to say. Wasn’t until Laura told me, that time you almost resigned on me, that people don’t know how I feel unless I tell them. But even then I didn’t, not really.”

James fiddles with his lighter. “I’m not that good at it either.”

“You managed okay. An’ now it’s my turn.” He pulls a face, trying to come up with the words, and then just makes himself say it. “What you said – that I’m the reason you stayed – well, suppose it’s the same for me, really. When I came back to Oxford, I thought all I needed was to get back to work. But there were so many reminders, and then there was Innocent trying to put me out to grass – and there was you, pushing me, refusing to let me wallow, _making_ me do what I had to do. You’ve not been just a partner. I called you a friend, and I mean it – you’re my best mate. Couldn’t have done this, the last few years, without you.”

James dips his head again, but not before Robbie’s seen a pink flush creep across his face and around his neck. His smile’s proud.

“Anyway,” Robbie says quickly, “Think it’s my round.” 

They both need a few minutes, so it’s perfect timing.

 

***

If he hadn’t been such a bloody bloke, as Laura would put it, and just told James that ages ago, they wouldn’t have had all that nonsense of the last few weeks. Taught him a lesson, anyway, it has. And he is a stupid bloody fool. He should have been able to work out for himself that James might need a bit of reassurance. What sort of childhood did the bloke have, after all? What about his parents? There’s clearly no love lost between James and his father – was it always like that?

For all that he could have done a lot better by Lyn and Mark, the two of them never doubted they were loved, by both him and Val. But James... now that he’s actually taking the time to think about it, there’s a good chance the lad’s been starved of affection. When’s he ever had a proper relationship? Or even, during the time Robbie’s known him, a best mate? By his own admission, he’s not a joiner of things. He doesn’t talk about friends from school or Cambridge, and he never mentions people he knew at the seminary. Abused at Crevecoeur – Robbie has absolutely no doubt now that James was one of the marquess’s victims – then off to public school, then university, and then a bloody seminary. When did he ever have any kind of normal life, or a chance to develop normal friendships? Except Will McEwan, and look what happened there.

Setting their drinks down on the table, Robbie gives James a pointed look. “I’m gonna expect you round at mine on Friday after work. Takeaway and crap telly, all right?”

James smiles, and it’s genuine. “I could cook. Assuming you have anything in your fridge that I’d call food.”

“Oi! I do buy food.”

“Only the sort that cooks in five minutes,” James points out. “And I would challenge the name under the Trade Descriptions Act.”

Robbie kicks him under the table, and they laugh. Sobering, Robbie adds, “If you’ve really got nothing better to do than help me with my cases, no more Secret Santa, okay?”

James’s mouth turns down. “Do I look like a Father Christmas to you?”

“You do when you’re sliding envelopes under my door at dead of night.”

“Eight o’clock in the morning, actually,” he points out. “DI Peterson’s a morning person.”

It’s on the tip of Robbie’s tongue to comment that Peterson would be, but stops himself. The bloke is James’s governor. Unprofessional. It strikes him, though, that while they’ve been here almost an hour it’s the first time James has mentioned his boss.

“You’re a bit of a morning person yourself,” he points out. “I seem to remember you being far more cheerful than my brain could cope with on many occasions.”

“Practice,” James says, deadpan.

“Anyway,” Robbie continues dryly, “At least if you’re over at mine or we’re having a pint from time to time, I’ll know you’re not lying half-dead somewhere again.”

That earns him a startled look and, for once, no smartarse comeback. Instead, James just says, barely audibly, “I’m sorry. I had no idea...”

Robbie shrugs. James is hardly to blame for the fact that he’s been a bit on edge lately. He hesitates, then decides just to voice the idea that’s crept into his mind over the last half-hour. Might be a very bad idea – but the more he considers it the more he thinks that it’s actually one of the best ideas he’s had in years.

“You know, the alarm would’ve been raised much sooner if you didn’t live alone.”

James’s gaze shoots to meet his, surprise on his face, but it’s several moments before he speaks, and then it’s with his practised careless drawl. “You live alone too.”

“I’m not the one who was abducted an’ almost murdered, am I?” Robbie points out. “But, yeah, you’re right,” he adds before James can interject. “I do. Could be it’s time to do something about that.”

James starts, and now there’s genuine shock on his face. “You mean you and Dr Hobson...?”

“Nah, soft lad. I mean, can you see me an’ Laura...? Course she’s a mate, you know that-”

“More than just a ‘mate’, isn’t she? You’ve been seeing each other for more than two years now.”

He’s not sure that he really wants to explain the complicated state of his relationship with – and feelings for – Laura right now. Oh, he’s fond of her, and they could probably be very comfortable together – most of the time; they both have a temper and he has a suspicion that things could get nasty if expectations don’t match – but he isn’t really interested in pursuing a relationship to the point of love and marriage, or even cohabitation. Not after Val. All he could offer anyone else would be second-best, and that’s not fair to Laura. Took him a while to realise that, though he suspects that Laura has known it for some time.

“Of course, it’s still none of my business,” James comments after the silence has grown noticeable.

“It’s not that,” Robbie hastens to explain. “We’re just not... Well, not headin’ towards moving in together.”

James frowns, clearly lost – and doesn’t that make a change? “Well, if not Dr Hobson, then...?”

“Want another?” Now that it’s come to the point, Robbie’s struggling for the words to broach what he’s been thinking about. Instead, he gestures to James’s half-empty glass.

James shakes his head. “You can’t tell me you’re about to move in with someone and then change the subject!” 

Robbie sighs. “It’s not... I mean, I just mentioned it now. I’ve not actually-” He drags a hand over his face. “Goin’ about this all wrong. The point is, if you’d been living with someone, then if you’d not come home and weren’t answering your phone we’d have known you were missing much sooner. You could’ve been found long before you were almost dead.” He hesitates, then admits, “Still gives me nightmares thinking of how close we were. Another hour or so, the doctor said...”

James nods, a slightly bashful expression creeping over his face. He swallows, seeming unable to comment, and Robbie frowns. Is it possible that it’s never occurred to James how his death would have affected Robbie?

He should tell the man, but... Instead, he finds himself saying, “Maybe you might not work so late all the time, too, if you’ve got someone to come home to.”

Now James is looking disbelieving. “Are you asking me to put an ad on Craigslist for a flatmate?” He raises his cigarette to his lips.

“Nah.” Robbie pulls a face. Why’s James so slow all of a sudden? He’s usually so sharp he’d cut himself – he’s got to have figured out what Robbie’s saying. “What’d you need to do that for when-” He gestures awkwardly at himself.

Abruptly, James goes rigid. His cigarette actually falls from his lips; he tries to catch it, but it ends up on the grass. Awkwardly, he stamps it out, taking his time. Buying time, Robbie knows.

When almost a minute’s gone past and James still hasn’t said anything, he takes his courage in both hands again. “What, you hate the idea so much that you can’t even-”

“It’s not that.” James fiddles with his lighter. “I... you took me by surprise. I never imagined...” He shakes his head. “It’s not that I couldn’t-”

After six years, he’s finally managed to render James Hathaway speechless. Robbie would mock the bloke for it, if it were under any other circumstances. 

He goes for faint humour, trying to disguise the sharp – and unexpected – disappointment that James’s decidedly unenthusiastic reaction’s caused. “It’s not as if we’ve not always spent a lot of off-duty time together as it is. An’ I think you know your way around my kitchen better than I do.” 

“That’s hardly difficult.” James is back on form, with a mocking smile. Though now there’s something in the lad’s eyes that makes Robbie wonder – it’s not longing, is it? But in that case, why’s he not saying yes? “I smoke. You’d never want to live with a smoker.”

He’s thought about that. “I spent almost every waking hour with you for over six years, including being next to you while you practically chain-smoked. I think I can cope. Besides, I’ve noticed you hardly ever smoke in your flat.”

James inclines his head. “You only have one bedroom.”

“Been thinking of getting a bigger place for a while. Maybe a house.” James looks sceptical, and he explains. “Been feeling bad about having only the couch for you to sleep on when you’ve ended up staying the night. And a spare bedroom’d be handy if Lyn and her bloke ever wanted to come down with the baby.” Which would mean looking for somewhere with three bedrooms, if he does persuade James to move in. But that’s doable.

There’s another pause while James takes a long drink of his pint – playing for time again, and Robbie knows he’s trying to come up with another excuse. Well, if that’s what the bloke wants, then... He scratches his ear. Obviously he was wrong, because he thought this might be something they’d both be happy with.

Finally, James meets his gaze. “I’m grate – no, I’m _touched_. But I’m not good at sharing living space. Never have been. Staying the night occasionally’s one thing, but anything more long-term wouldn’t work. Thank you, though. Really.”

He shrugs. “Up to you.” Gesturing at their now almost-empty glasses, he says, “Another?”

“Should be getting home. I have some work to finish.”

“Workaholic.” Robbie shakes his head as they start walking towards the car park. “Friday, my place, don’t forget. Beer, takeaway and crap telly, and no arguments.”

He doesn’t get an argument. James smiles, and it’s genuine. “I’ll look forward to it.”

At James’s car, as they pause to say goodnight, Robbie hesitates before walking away. This is the first proper conversation they’ve had in weeks, with the misunderstandings and avoidance finally out of the way, and it seems... wrong to leave it with just a casual _see you_. And in his head he keeps seeing James in that hospital bed, holding out his hand to be held. James in the hospital garden, needing a hug but too awkward to ask for it. James with his head on Robbie’s shoulder.

He settles for wrapping his arm across the back of James’s shoulders, not quite a hug but more than a pat on the back. “Friday, then. Seven? Might as well bring an overnight bag, just in case.”

James answers with a touch to his arm and a smile, then gets into his car and is gone.

 

***

James does stay the night on Friday, and on Saturday morning they cook a proper breakfast together. It’s companionable and relaxing, and it feels like they’ve been doing this for years. Surely this is showing James that they could live together without getting on each other’s nerves?

He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to go home, either, and when Robbie says he needs a new DVD player because the one he has is knackered James instantly offers to research models online and help him find one. By the time James has found one he’ll recommend and sourced it locally, it’s almost lunchtime, and it only feels right that after they get the DVD player Robbie stands James a sandwich and coffee at a café they both like, to thank him for his help. 

Afterwards, they walk along the Broad together back towards Robbie’s car, and Robbie pauses to look in an estate agent’s window at properties to let. At James’s tilted head and enquiring look, he says, “Did tell you I was thinking of getting a bigger place.”

“So you did.” James moves closer and studies the display. “What’s your budget?”

Robbie mentions a figure that’s around a hundred quid a month more than he’s paying right now. It’s affordable, and he could go higher if he needed. James’s eyebrows shoot up; of course, on a sergeant’s salary that’s well beyond his reach. Though Robbie does have other resources: there’s what he kept of Val’s life insurance after setting up accounts for the kids for when they want to buy their first house, plus the inheritance from Morse and the equity from his and Val’s house.

“That should get you something decent,” James says, and nods towards one ground-floor flat in a Victorian semi that Robbie’d also been eyeing.

He gives James a sideways glance. “Could do better still if you’d reconsider.”

James bites his lip, then says, “I did explain why not.” His body’s so taut it looks like it could snap. Robbie reaches out to touch the lad’s shoulder, to tell him that it’s okay, he doesn’t need to defend himself. James gives him a hint of an apologetic smile, then adds, “Besides, I might not be a reliable flatmate, depending on what I decide to do.” At Robbie’s questioning look, he explains. “If I leave the force in the next couple of years, for instance, I might not have a dependable source of income for a while, especially if I go back to university.”

In the next couple of years... Robbie’s due to retire in just under three years. So James still means it, then. “I thought Professor Pinnock was offering you a fellowship? I know academics are always bloody complaining about their pay, but they don’t do that badly.”

“I’m sure the fellowship won’t still be available by then.” James tips his head back, seeming to find the guttering above the shop’s bow window fascinating. “And with just a first degree I doubt anyone else would have me, so I’d have to do a research degree first.”

And how would he fund that? But James is clever – he’d get a scholarship. Still, that’d mean living in one of the colleges, of course. And he hasn’t specified Oxford, either, has he? “Seems like you’ve got your future all planned out, then.” 

He turns away from the agent’s window. For some reason, he’s lost interest in looking at flats.

When they get back to Robbie’s, James installs the new DVD player, but when he says he needs to get going Robbie doesn’t try to stop him.

 

***

Robbie’s just going into the station one afternoon the following week when he meets Laura on her way out. Smiling, he pauses to chat for a moment, then frowns as he notices the serious, almost angry expression on her face. “Something wrong?”

“Have you seen James this afternoon?” Her tone’s clipped, and she’s clearly holding back irritation.

“No, haven’t seen him since Monday, an’ only then in passing. Why?”

Her chin tilts. “Just go and see him, Robbie, all right?”

“If you say so, but why? Laura,” he protests as she starts to hurry off. What the hell’s the matter? It’s got her upset, so it can’t be nothing. Has James done something stupid, or got into an argument with Peterson because Mr Enthusiasm can’t be bothered to understand his new sergeant?

Sighing, he hurries up the stairs to Peterson’s floor, and immediately runs into James, who’s just emerged from the men’s loo. James sees him in the same moment, and immediately averts his face.

What the-? “James?” 

Hathaway goes rigid, then after a moment his shoulders slump in a resigned gesture. “We’d better go into the office,” he says without looking around, and leads the way.

It’s only when they’re inside – Peterson conspicuous by his absence – and the door’s closed that James turns to face him. And Robbie’s breath catches. His face is covered in what are already turning to bruises, he’s got a couple of cuts on his cheek and chin, neatly taped with butterfly plasters, and the backs of his hands are raw and scraped. And he’s favouring his left leg.

Shit. The bloke’s only just survived an attack on his life less than six weeks ago. What’s happened now?

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“No?” Robbie raises his eyebrows. “Can’t wait to hear it, then. ‘Cause it looks to me like you’ve had the shit kicked out of you.”

James perches on the edge of his desk. “I was instructed to search a squat we had information was being used as a gang HQ. We were led to believe that there’d be no-one there at the time I went in. It seems that either the information was wrong, or that someone tipped them off that I was coming.”

Robbie looks at James in silence for several moments. Nothing else is forthcoming, so finally he asks, “Where was Peterson?”

“At the time? Here.” James’s tone is one Robbie recognises: faintly supercilious, a classic Hathaway _keep out_ signal.

“He knows what happened? He’s seen the state of you?”

“Officers get injured in the line of duty all the time, sir.” Now he’s dismissive, but Robbie’s not convinced it’s anything other than an act. James is obviously in pain, and if he’s not pissed off at his boss for relying on information he clearly didn’t check out thoroughly enough, or sending James in without the precaution of backup, then Robbie’s a gorilla. “You’ve been shot and knifed, among other things, while I’ve known you. And this is hardly the first time I’ve been injured, even if we ignore what happened last month.” 

“The difference is I never put you in a situation I wasn’t prepared to go into myself,” Robbie points out, barely holding onto his temper. It’s not James he’s pissed off with, though. “And if I ever have any doubts about safety I put the well-being of my officers first, unless there are lives at risk.”

James nods, and his lips tighten. “I know. But, sir...” He takes a deep breath. “I know you’re not happy about this. I have to ask, though: please leave it. Don’t say anything to Peterson or Innocent. I have to deal with this myself.”

He doesn’t want to agree. He can’t decide which he wants more: to march straight into Innocent’s office and make a formal complaint about Peterson’s reckless disregard for the safety of his officers, or drag Peterson out to the car park and kick the shit out of him in return. The bastard should be here, making sure that his sergeant’s okay – it’s clear from James’s avoidance of the issue that Peterson’s been nowhere in evidence.

But James is right: it’s up to him to deal with the situation. “All right. But tell me you will, all right?” He waits, not looking away until James gives him the answer he wants.

“You should come over tonight,” he begins; someone should keep an eye on him and make sure the damage is nothing more than cuts and bruises, especially since he had a serious head injury less than two months ago. Did that even occur to bloody Peterson?

“Thanks, but I think I’d rather just have a long bath and go to bed.”

Robbie hesitates, but then nods. “If you feel dizzy or anything, phone me, yeah?”

“I will.” James moves to his desk, and it’s Robbie’s cue to go. It’s probably just as well that he doesn’t run into Peterson for the rest of the day.

 

***

By Friday afternoon, three days later, he hasn’t caught sight of James – he and Bennett have been caught up in a busy case, and he’s had to make do with texts. James insists that he’s fine, it was no worse than bruising and even the limp’s better, but Robbie’d prefer to see for himself, thanks very much.

He’s on his way to an address in Headington when his phone rings. He glances at the screen. It’s Innocent. Damn. He’s not got the hands-free set up, so he has to pull over.

“Robbie. At last!” She sounds impatient and irritated. “I need you in my office immediately.”

“Ma’am, I’m just on my way to interview a suspect-”

“Sergeant Bennett can do that, can’t she? I mean it – I need you here now.”

Bennett’s not with him; he’s sent her off to the town hall for some information. But it’s not worth telling Innocent that, especially given her obvious agitation. Whatever’s got her worked up like this, it doesn’t bode well for someone. Just as long as it’s not him...

Calming, conciliatory, he says, “Yes, Ma’am. But can I ask what it’s about?”

He can hear Innocent’s sharp intake of breath. “Sergeant Hathaway has just handed in his papers.”

 

***


	8. Partners

He’s fifteen minutes from the station, but it sounds like Innocent doesn’t want to be kept waiting. Nor does he, for that matter. He switches on the siren and does a U-turn.

What’s brought this on now, all of a sudden? Last weekend, James strongly implied that he wasn’t thinking of resigning for a couple of years yet. It can’t be the fact that he got hurt – the injuries he sustained this week are nothing compared to the attack on him a couple of months ago, the attempt on his life that still gives Robbie nightmares. Could it be the way Peterson cocked things up so badly?

At the station, Robbie runs up the stairs and along the corridor to Innocent’s office. A quick tap on the outer office, and he enters without waiting. Innocent’s assistant is missing, but James is there, sitting rigidly upright and staring in front of him.

“What’ve you done now?” Robbie deliberately keeps his tone light, that mock-exasperated voice he knows James is familiar with.

“Sir!” James’s head jerks around. The bruises on his face have faded to yellow now, but they’re still visible. “What are you doing here? Ah. Of course.” His expression changes to wary acceptance. “That’s why she asked me to wait.”

“Yeah, Innocent called me in. You might’ve talked to me about it first, you know.” He tries to keep the hurt from his voice, but he’s not entirely successful.

James meets his gaze, resolve in his expression. “You’d only have tried-”

He breaks off as the inner door opens. “Come in, both of you,” Innocent says, voice crisp.

Robbie watches James carefully as he stands, then walks into the office. He’s still limping slightly. Damn it. 

They’re not asked to sit, and Innocent gets straight to the point. “James, this is a bit extreme, isn’t it? Why?”

“Not extreme at all, Ma’am.” Completely sure of himself, James is holding Innocent’s gaze steadily. “I’ve suspected for some time that my long-term future is somewhere other than the police. I hadn’t intended to resign this soon, but current circumstances have made it unavoidable.”

“Current circumstances?” Innocent gives him a wearily exasperated look. “I know you didn’t want to be transferred from working with Inspector Lewis, but I thought you and Peterson were getting on well.”

“Well?” Robbie can’t help interrupting. “You do know what happened this week? Peterson sent James into a dangerous situation without proper precautions-”

“I’m well aware of what happened, Robbie. Thank you.” Innocent turns back to James. “You know I spoke with DI Peterson about that, and he will be more careful in future. But if you’ve lost confidence in him as a senior officer, wouldn’t it make more sense to ask for a transfer?”

James shakes his head sharply. “It’s not about that, Ma’am. Although I would have asked for a transfer if I’d had any reason to believe that you’d accept my request.”

“What makes you think-”

“The only transfer I would have considered accepting, as an alternative to resigning immediately, is back to my previous position, Ma’am. But you made it clear that wasn’t possible.”

Innocent sighs. “Is that all this is? An over-dramatic attempt to force my hand? I would have expected better from you, Sergeant.”

James’s chin tilts upwards. “So you should, Ma’am. Though I infer that you don’t, since you asked Inspector Lewis to be present.”

They’re starting to put each other’s backs up, and that’s not good. Robbie touches James’s arm, giving him a _trust me_ look, then turns back to Innocent. “Instead of speculating, why don’t we ask James why he wants out of the force?” He glances back at James. “And why now?”

Innocent actually gives him a grateful smile. “Exactly. So, James, won’t you enlighten us?”

“Ma’am.” He glances briefly to his right. “Sir. It’s not Inspector Peterson, or anything that’s happened recently. I came to the conclusion a long time ago that the police force was not really the right environment for me. I don’t think I’ve got the right...” He hesitates, then adds, “...personality for it.”

And if that’s not code for something, Robbie’ll eat his warrant card. But for what? 

But it’s not too difficult, is it? _Who else would understand me?_ James has always struggled to fit in, hasn’t he? Even when he’s pretended that he doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him.

Innocent nods at him to go on. “I almost resigned several years ago, Ma’am. But then my working arrangements changed abruptly-” James looks at Robbie again. “-and it seemed I’d found my niche.”

“With Inspector Lewis, you mean.”

James inclines his head. “I had intended to leave when Inspector Lewis retires. I did consider it when you transferred me, but I didn’t want to let Inspector Lewis down. Unfortunately, I’m now certain that my future lies elsewhere.” He gestures to the papers on Innocent’s desk. “You have my resignation, Ma’am.”

Innocent closes her eyes briefly, then stares up at the ceiling for a long moment. “You talk some sense into him, Robbie!”

James’s eyes are on him, he knows. A quick sidelong glance shows him the resigned expression on the bloke’s face: he’s expecting that his ex-governor will try to do just that. 

Why should James think that? It doesn’t make any sense. He didn’t try to change the lad’s mind about promotion, and last weekend when he made clear that he didn’t intend to stay in the force long-term Robbie didn’t try to talk him out of that either. Does James honestly think Robbie won’t support him?

Oh, of course he doesn’t actually want James to resign. Not now, not with – so far as Robbie knows – no other job to go to, or any other immediate options. It’s the middle of Michaelmas term, so James would have to wait until January to start a research degree, if that’s his intention. 

Regardless, he’ll support James against Innocent. But there may be another way to handle this, a way that helps all of them get what they want.

He turns to meet the Chief Super’s expectant look. “Nah. In fact, if he’s going, reckon I’ll go too.” 

It’s worked before as a threat. He knows Innocent doesn’t want to lose both of them. _If you go, I go_. He glances at James, hoping his friend will recognise the reciprocal gesture, even if he didn’t use exactly the same words. James’s eyes have widened in shock, but as he meets Robbie’s gaze his lips twitch very faintly. It’s such a familiar feeling, the two of them united in opposition, and it’s bloody good.

Innocent isn’t amused. “What? You’re not serious, Robbie. What on earth would you do?”

Robbie shrugs. “Yeah, I’m serious. Almost applied for early retirement last year – James’ll tell you that. As for what I’d do, insurance companies are always looking for retired detectives for fraud investigation. I’ve had a few offers over the years.”

“Oh, for-” She’s only just managing to hold back her temper. “I should just let you both go. No doubt it will make my job a lot easier.”

Robbie shrugs. “Why not? James has already resigned. Just give me a retirement application an’ I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes.”

Innocent takes several deep breaths before speaking. “You know I don’t want that, Robbie. I would prefer not to lose either of you any sooner than I have to. Look, will you give me a week? Both of you.” She picks up James’s resignation papers. “Take these back for now, Sergeant. If you’re not happy with what I have to say to you in a week’s time, I’ll accept them without protest.”

Robbie says nothing; he doesn’t even look at James. It has to be the lad’s own choice – knowing that the only reason James stayed on after they were split up was so as not to let _him_ down, when it sounds like he’s hated it, is already making him feel sick.

After a moment’s pause, James leans forward and takes the papers. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Thank you.” Innocent stands. “James, you’re off-duty for the rest of the day, and the weekend. Next week, you can help DCI Carpenter – her bagman’s on holiday. Robbie, I believe you said you were about to interview a suspect? Any progress?”

“Not yet, Ma’am.” James is turning to leave the room, and Robbie stalls him with a hand on his arm. “Pub, later on, all right?”

James nods, and Robbie carries on with his update.

 

***

 

“That was an impressive bluff.” James puts their pints down on the table, then sits opposite Robbie, immediately reaching for his cigarettes.

Robbie raises an eyebrow. “Wasn’t a bluff. That’s why it was impressive.”

Halfway to lighting his cigarette, James’s hand stalls. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“You don’t want to retire. You didn’t take the early retirement scheme when it was offered.”

“Was still working with you then.” And it’s true: a lot of the challenge, the _fun_ , has gone out of the job in the past couple of months. Chris is good, most of the time, but she’s not James, and even if she was brilliant at her job she still wouldn’t give him what he’s been missing since he lost James as his partner.

James lights his cigarette this time, still giving Robbie what’s almost an accusing look. “You never _said_... I thought-” 

“You idiot. Did you think I was fine working without you?” He shakes his head at James in reproof. “We were a good team. Bloody good. That’s why... well, when you never showed any interest in talking about OSPRE, I was happy to leave it be. Bit selfish, that, but...” He pulls a face. “As long as you were happy where you were, I didn’t want to lose you.”

Was this what it was like for Morse, all those years when it felt like his boss was holding him back? Oh, he knows now that Morse tried hard for him behind the scenes, though only once he realised how much it meant to Robbie and that there was a strong possibility of losing him to another division entirely if he couldn’t get promotion within their branch of CID.

“Course I didn’t say anything,” he adds before James can speak. “How could I? Innocent wasn’t gonna change her mind, and I couldn’t put you in a difficult position when you had to get used to a new governor. But why didn’t you tell me you weren’t happy working with Peterson?”

James raises both eyebrows, in an expression that clearly says _How can you not know?_ “How could I? He’s my governor, and you’re another senior officer. It would have been disloyal and unprofessional. You made it very clear that you didn’t want to know about our working relationship, and I completely understand that.”

“But that’s-” Frustrated, Robbie shakes his head. Yes, James is right: he did want to stay out of the working relationship. But this is different. “Yeah, I had to stay clear, not just because it would’ve been unprofessional, but because it wouldn’t have done you any favours with your new governor if he thought you were telling me everything that went on. But I didn’t mean you couldn’t talk to me if it got so bad you were thinking o’ leaving!”

James’s mouth turns down at the corners. “I thought you’d try to talk me out of it. And, yes, I now know I was wrong.”

“Good.” Robbie sips his pint. “Should be obvious by now that none o’ that matters to me. I’d rather see you workin’ on a building site and happy than stuck in a job you hate.”

That gets him a genuine smile. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.” James hesitates for a moment, then adds, “What will you do? If Innocent doesn’t offer us anything, I mean.”

“She will.” He’s completely confident about that. “She doesn’t want to lose either of us before she has to, let alone both.”

“But if she doesn’t?” James persists.

He shrugs, as if the answer’s obvious. “What I said, probably. And you? Back to Cambridge, I suppose?”

James frowns. “Here, Cambridge – I haven’t decided. But I thought you’d be moving to Manchester once you retire?” He stubs out his cigarette, and it feels as if he’s avoiding Robbie’s gaze.

He shakes his head. “It’s what Lyn wants, but I’m not keen. Yeah, it’d be nice to be closer to her, but Oxford’s home. Lived here for over thirty years, an’ everyone I know’s here. Course, I hadn’t thought you might be leaving when I made up me mind,” he adds, scowling faintly. “Was a bit of a surprise last weekend when you mentioned what you were planning.”

James reaches for another cigarette and lights it. “I didn’t think you’d be here, so...”

Ah. So James’s plans might be negotiable, depending on him. Not for the first time, and this time he’s not going to ignore the bloke saying it. He waits until James meets his eyes, then says, “Well, I will. So... I hear Oxford has a not bad theology department.” He pauses, trying and failing to hold back a smile at James’s stunned expression, then changes the subject. “Been meaning to ask you for weeks. Emergency contact?”

James stills, then carefully blows out a puff of smoke, watching it instead of Robbie. “You’ve known me for six years. Who else do I have to list?”

 _Your father_ , Robbie thinks, but he won’t say it. He doesn’t need James to tell him why not, and he won’t invade the lad’s privacy by bringing it up. If James ever wants to tell him, he’ll listen, but Robbie’ll never tell him what he knows.

Instead, he reaches across and lays his fingers briefly against James’s wrist. “I’m glad you chose me. Meant I got to see you an’ make sure you were all right without havin’ to make a fuss about it. Though you could’ve told me, instead of lettin’ me discover it when I was trying to find out who to contact for you.” 

That makes James frown, and he stares at Robbie, puzzled. “Why does it feel like we’ve already had this conversation? Or at least that I‘ve heard you say that before,” he adds, more slowly.

Robbie frowns as well, because he knows this is the first time he’s mentioned it. Though, wait... 

“Think I said something when you were still unconscious.” He pulls a face, a bit embarrassed now at the memory. “Doctor said I should talk to you. Probably said a whole lot of nonsense, but I think I mentioned that.” And if James remembers that, what else does he remember?

Though does it really matter? He didn’t say anything he didn’t mean – and if he’s learned anything about the last few weeks it’s that for some reason he can’t fathom at all James seems to be insecure about their friendship. It’s completely ridiculous: he’s told the lad he thinks of him as his best mate. He even asked him to share a flat. Doesn’t that tell James where he stands?

Maybe not, though. Maybe he really does need to spell it out a bit more, if James is being so unusually thick. After all, it’s obviously the combination of James being thick and him not saying things that got them into the mess they’ve been in – and he’s had quite enough of that, thank you very much.

“Strikes me,” he says slowly, “that we’ve had a few misunderstandings lately. An’, yeah, we could blame Innocent, ‘cause it all started after she split us up. Or we could... well, accept responsibility ourselves for not always sayin’ what we mean.”

He’s got James’s full attention. “Go on.”

“All right.” No point trying to think of the words; he just needs to say it, however it comes. “Told you the last time we went for a drink that I missed you. You’re me best mate. We’ve always spent a lot of off-duty time together, an’ it was never just because you were me sergeant. And – just in case it wasn’t clear – nothing I’ve suggested, or any invitation I’ve given you, has been out of... I dunno, pity or obligation or anything like that.” 

James leans his forearms on the table, and his head dips. “I know that. I _should have_ known that – I don’t know why, but I think I forgot it a few times recently. It’s been my fault, not yours. You kept trying, and I kept pushing you away.”

“Yeah. Been a bit of a twat, haven’t you?” Before James can respond, he adds, “Sorted now, that’s all that matters, eh?”

James nods, then raises his head and smiles. “Yes. And, since I have the weekend off, why don’t you come over to mine tomorrow, as soon as you finish work? I’ll cook.” He pulls a face, then adds, “I’d say stay the night so you don’t have to worry about having a few drinks, but I know my sofa’s no good for you, and you never let me give you my bed.”

Robbie sips his pint again, then waves the glass in James’s direction. “See, this is exactly why we should just bloody get a flat together. Oh, not the only reason, course not, but it’d be much more convenient.” He holds up a hand as James is about to speak. “Don’t give me any of that crap about not being good at sharing living spaces. We’ve never had a problem hanging around each other’s places half the weekend. And as for the other bit of nonsense you came out with – in the unlikely event that you did end up unemployed for a bit, d’you really think that’d matter to me? Don’t insult me.”

For a long moment, James simply stares at him, apparently lost for words. Finally, he begins, “I...” With a quick shake of his head, he tries again. “You’ve been... incredibly generous. And honest. And it’s only fair that I – I can’t tell you how much I want to say yes.”

Robbie cuts in. “Then just-”

“It’s not as simple as that.” James takes a jerky drag of his cigarette, sitting now with shoulders hunched, and something about his posture just twists at Robbie’s heart, though he doesn’t know why. “If I accepted, it’d be under false pretences. I haven’t been completely honest with you, and please don’t ask me what about, because I can’t tell you-”

“Can’t or won’t?” What the bloody hell’s got into him now? And he’s avoiding Robbie’s eyes again; that’s always a bad sign.

“All right, won’t. And can’t. The point is that if you knew you’d never want me living with you. So-” James does finally look at him again. “Thank you. Thank you, more than I can say, for asking – but I can’t.” He smiles then, that faint curve of his lips that for some reason never fails to make Robbie want to smile in return. “I’m happy to help you look for a bigger place, though. And if it happens to have a second bedroom I can use every now and then, I won’t complain. Might even be persuaded to help you move.”

So that’s it, then. No point asking again, clearly. 

It was just a thought; no big deal, not really. So why’s Robbie feeling as if James’s refusal is a crushing disappointment?

 

***

_I haven’t been completely honest with you... If you knew, you’d never want me living with you._

At home later, Robbie’s still thinking about what James said, and every bit as baffled as he was earlier. What could he possibly mean?

He’s known James for years now. Okay, the lad can be secretive – and sometimes with good reason – but what could be so bad that if Robbie knew he’d have a problem with it? Secret criminal? Smackhead? No chance. James would never – and there’s no way Robbie wouldn’t have noticed it if he were.

So what else? What could he possibly think Robbie would object to?

He scratches his head, pacing his living-room, as he tries to think, to look for clues, to figure it out. 

James uncomfortable meeting his gaze sometimes. His obvious unhappiness at the idea that Robbie might leave Oxford – and his clear relief when Robbie stated his intention to stay. Thinking back a few weeks, that soppy – almost adoring – look on the bloke’s face after he regained consciousness, and the way he reached out his hand to be held. His unhappiness – hurt? – when he found out that Robbie had a new sergeant. And all those quick, almost stolen glances – back over how long? More than just a few weeks, or even a few months – where he’d turn away if Robbie saw him looking.

He’s been a stupid, thick, blind sod, hasn’t he?

Is it that James is a man, or that there’s an age-gap of a generation between them, that he didn’t see it? Never even imagined the possibility?

And now that he has, what should he do about it?

He sinks into one of the dining chairs, scrubbing his face, striving for logic. Yet all he can see is what he missed back in the pub: James’s eyes, the twist of his lips, when he said he hadn’t been honest. He was hurting – and not for the first time lately, either. 

Yeah, he’s a stupid fucking idiot to think it was ever all about being partners.

In some ways, it’s a ridiculous idea, though, isn’t it? Yes, he’s long suspected that James is gay, or at least bi, but he’s – what? Thirty-four? Thirty-four to Robbie’s fifty-seven. Not that much older than Lyn, and Robbie finds his brain skittering away from the implications of that, not that it’s not crossed his mind in the past. But then James might be young in years, but he’s not in most other ways. In so many ways, he might be from Robbie’s generation.

The only time he’s really reminded of James’s age these days is when the bloke’s feeling insecure about something – like recently, and how did that all start? Not difficult to see, looking back: after the attack, when James regained consciousness, Robbie was there – holding his hand, even – and over the next couple of days they were closer than ever before. Until work intruded again, and built distance between them.

And now there’s this new thing – no, not new, but newly exposed – creating a different distance between them. Though now that he thinks about it, it’s probably this, as much as work, that caused the distance originally. Now he’s worked it out, all those looks, and looks away, are so bloody obvious. James must’ve concluded that his feelings were one-sided, and then been terrified of him figuring it out. 

Now he knows, it’s out in the open, and the only one who can make things right for James is himself. If he wants to.

It’s unconscious – at least, he thinks it is – but he finds himself staring at the photo of him and Val, over on the telephone table. And that’s when it strikes him: if James were a woman, not only would Robbie have noticed this a long time ago, but he’d have done something about it.

Because, if he’s honest, James isn’t the only one who feels something, is he? It’s not that long since he thought he was driving to a crime scene to find James’s corpse, his heart breaking every mile of the journey.

He thought he didn’t want another relationship, wasn’t ready for one. That’s what he told James. But that’s just rubbish, because hasn’t he been in one all this time?

“You won’t mind, will you, bonny lass?” he murmurs, still looking at the photo. Somehow, his imagination’s telling him that Val’s smile’s grown wider.

 

***

James is dressed in one of his long-sleeved T-shirts, and he’s got what looks like a glass of whisky in his hand, when he opens the door of his flat. “Robbie? I didn’t expect...”

“Just wanted a little chat.” He starts to move forward. “Mind if I come in?”

James steps back, though his expression’s wary. “Of course.” He indicates his glass. “Drink?”

“Nah, had enough earlier.” And besides, he doesn’t want to get distracted. “Been thinking since the pub,” he says. “Trying to work out what you meant. Not one of my finest bits of detective work, I’ll admit, but I think I might’ve got there at last.”

James goes still so abruptly it’s almost as if someone’s thrown liquid nitrogen over him. “Oh, you do, do you?” he says after a pause, and there’s a definite edge to his voice.

Robbie opens his mouth, but no words come out. Bloody typical, isn’t it? He works up his courage to get this far, and then screws it up. 

Okay. Try again. “Are you...” His mouth dries up. “Do you fancy me?”

James blinks. Then he smirks. “Do people actually say that any more?”

Robbie shakes his head, barely smothering an exasperated smile. “You know exactly what I mean.” 

James’s smile is bland. “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” But the lad can’t hide what’s in his eyes.

Robbie advances further into the room, cutting off James’s exit to the kitchen. “It’s not just attraction, is it?” Ah. Now there’s fear and longing in his friend’s expression – hidden quickly, but he saw it all the same. And he’s seen it before, too, hasn’t he? God, he’s been so bloody slow.

He’s pushed James as far as he can without giving anything back, that’s clear. So it’s his turn. Long overdue, too, it is.

Time to say it – say everything he intended to before, so there’s no misunderstanding. “When I thought you were dead, it was the worst thing that’d happened to me since Val. Was gonna find your murderer, put him away, then pack it in. Didn’t want to do the job without you. Then you were alive after all, and I swore I’d make sure you know how... important you are to me. Failed miserably at that. Could say it when you were unconscious, but not to your face.”

Now James is staring at him again, eyes almost impossibly wide, and he’s wearing an expression that says he’s just about daring to hope, and Robbie wants to hug him. And to kick himself, for ever making the bloke think he wasn’t loved.

But he has to finish making himself clear first, since James is being a bit slow on the uptake.

“Told meself last week, when you asked about Laura, that I didn’t want another relationship. I’d had the best I could ever have and couldn’t offer second-best to someone else. Thing is, what I didn’t realise is that I was already in another relationship, wasn’t I? And I’ve been offering you second-best. But only because I didn’t _know_.”

James steps back until he’s pressed against the wall. He looks as if he’s just run a four-minute mile. “I... Robbie, I don’t want to misunderstand – why are you telling me this?”

Ah. James isn’t being slow. He’s just afraid to trust what he’s hearing, afraid that he’s wrong. “Think I worked out why you said no to me. What it is you said I wouldn’t like. An’ I wanted you to know that it’s not a problem. Nothing like.”

James says nothing, but his expression’s silently pleading with Robbie to carry on. Robbie takes a deep breath and keeps his gaze fixed on James. “So. You’re in love with me?”

On a long exhale, James says simply, “Yes.”

Robbie nods, as if the final clue’s just slotted into place in a tricky case. “Sorry it took me so long to figure it out – not just what was bothering you, but me own side of things. Should’ve realised it when I thought you’d been killed, but – well, I’m not just fifty-seven and from Newcastle, but I’ve never been – that way-” James gives him a sardonic look, obviously challenging his word choice. “All right. _Interested_.” He shakes his head. “Sod it. _In love_ with a bloke before.”

Robbie can hear James’s inhale from across the room. “I never expected that,” James says, and his voice is shaky. 

Robbie gives him a wry smile. “Would never’ve got there if things hadn’t happened the way they did. I mean, I suppose I came close to figuring it out when I thought you were dead, but then you weren’t, and without Innocent splitting us up we’d probably just have gone back to the way we were before, and I’d never have realised. I’d just have kept on ignoring the stuff we never talked about – like why we spent so much time together, or why I preferred bein’ with you than with Laura. And I know I’d never have figured you out if you hadn’t given me that bloody great hint earlier. I mean-” He shakes his head; it’s still hard to believe, even now. “You lovin’ _me_? Why?”

James actually looks pissed off. “I wish you wouldn’t run yourself down, Robbie. Why wouldn’t I love you? I’ve told you so much of what you’ve been to me. And there’s this.” His expression softens. “You’ve spent the last six years teaching me about love. What it really is, not what the Church or friends or anyone else tried to make me believe. You accepted me as I am, even when I made it extremely difficult for you – when anyone else would have given up on me and walked away. How could I not love you?”

“Christ.” Robbie shakes his head, unable to find words to respond to that. But maybe words aren’t what’s needed. He takes a deep breath and walks across the room towards James. “Not sure I’m gonna be any good at this,” he says as he gets close enough to touch. “Not had any experience with another bloke.”

“You’ll be better than me,” James says, his hands reaching out to grip Robbie’s waist, and that’s when Robbie realises his friend – partner? – is trembling. 

“C’mere,” he says softly, and curls his hand around the back of James’s neck. Instead of moving straight for the kiss, he tugs James’s head down to his shoulder, stroking the short-cropped fair hair until the man calms. 

Then he loosens his grip, hands moving to the side of James’s head, sliding to hold James’s face between his palms. And that’s when it dawns on him that this isn’t difficult at all. It’s not about whether James is a man or Val was a woman. It’s about whether you love and want the person you’re going to kiss. 

And he does, so that’s that. The rest is simple.

 

***

There’s no denying it. He, Robbie Lewis, has been a stupid, blind fool. If he hadn’t been, he’d have worked out how James felt about him long before now, and they could have been doing this all along.

Better late than never.

The kissing’s bloody fantastic. And the way certain other parts of his body are cheering him on, it looks as if other activities might also be very welcome. Not what he expected – not at his age, not as a bloke who was happily married to a woman for more than twenty years – but he’s not complaining. At all.

James breaks the kiss, hugs him and then loosens his hold, pulling back to look at Robbie. “You absolutely sure about this?” 

Robbie almost wants to shake him. Even now, there’s still concern in James’s eyes – concern for _him_ , Robbie knows, not for James’s own needs. He gives James one of his practised exasperated looks, with the automatic fondness that’s always there these days. “Where was me tongue thirty seconds ago? That feel like I’m not sure?”

He gets a cheeky smirk in response to that, though James’s reply is serious enough. “Just had to be certain. This... to say it’s unexpected would be an understatement.”

“Now, you know I always like to keep you on your toes,” Robbie points out, deadpan. James grins, then kisses him again. 

Later, they’re drinking tea, sitting next to each other on James’s sofa, and what surprises Robbie most is how little has changed, even though so much is different. James is holding his hand, their fingers laced together on James’s lap, but otherwise this could be any one of dozens – hundreds – of evenings spent together at one or other’s home.

James turns to him, one eyebrow raised in a question. “Is that offer still open? Us sharing a flat?”

Robbie considers for a moment. Should they give it some time, with this new development? But the answer’s easy – as he’s already recognised, they’ve been a couple in every way that matters for a very long time. The only thing that’s new is the kissing – and anything else that might happen in the relatively near future.

He smiles, fingers tightening around James’s. “Course it is. Come an’ live with me. Just not as me best mate. Yeah?”

James leans in to kiss him again. “I’d like that very, very much.”

 

***

A week later, as instructed, they’re ready to present themselves in Innocent’s office. It’s been a busy seven days: work, for one thing, as well as spending as much free time together as possible – mainly flat-hunting, at Robbie’s insistence; even if they will only need one bedroom, he’d still like a bigger place for the two of them, as well as somewhere they’ve chosen together. If they’re going to be on equal terms outside work, which he’s determined on, James isn’t going to move into a flat he can’t help but associate with his boss. 

James wanted to wait to find a flat until he was sure he’d still have a job, but Robbie overruled him. “Told you, it’s you I want, not your ability to share the bills. I don’t care about that.”

They might have found somewhere: the ground floor of a very nice Victorian detached house just off the Woodstock Road in Summertown. Two bedrooms – so room for Lyn and her family to visit – plenty of parking, and full use of the back garden, so there’s somewhere for James to smoke. There’s even a couple of pubs in walking distance. He can afford it on his own if need be, but with both their salaries it’ll be very manageable. He’s just put in an offer to the letting agents and they’re waiting to hear. 

Just what they’ll tell Innocent about their change of address they’ve yet to discuss, but they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it.

Innocent waves them to seats as soon as they come in, and gets straight to the point. “I believe I may have found a solution that should meet everyone’s needs, but it will require some concessions from the two of you.”

Robbie glances at James, but he’s nodding, listening. “Go on, Ma’am.”

“Robbie, as I know you’re aware, there has been a considerable amount of pressure from the Home Office for local forces to take some serious action in cutting down the number of unsolved cases on our books. It doesn’t look good for the police.”

Robbie nods. Cold cases: a never-ending thorn in their side. He hates them; the lack of closure for victims and families eats away at him. 

“Recently, the Home Office set aside specific funding for pilot projects. I put forward a proposal, and I just heard this week that we’ve been successful. The funding’s for five years, with an option to extend for a further five if we can show we’re getting results. I propose to establish a dedicated team, headed up by two senior officers, focusing on evaluating unsolved cases, recommending which should be reopened, assigning them to other teams and working on some themselves. I will confess that I’d thought of involving one or both of you in some way anyway, since you’ve both shown an interest and some success in clearing up old cases.”

Right: the work James did on the Chloe Brooks case, which was actually outstanding. And, Robbie realises, solving the mystery of Val’s killer. And, yes, he’s complained a time or two over the years about sloppy detective work in cold cases he’s been given to re-examine.

James still isn’t saying anything, but another quick glance his way shows that he’s interested; he’s nodding faintly, and he’s getting that focused look in his eyes. 

“I’d like to be involved, Ma’am – very much, as it happens. Thing is, though, I’m due to retire in less than three years.”

“Which brings me to the concessions I mentioned.” Innocent leans forward. “As I’m sure you know, Robbie, there is scope in the policy for an officer to stay beyond their official retirement date for up to ten years by mutual consent.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Robbie sees James’s head turn, and his face is alight. Doesn’t take any guessing at all to know that he wants Robbie to say yes here and now.

But then James turns back to Innocent. “You said two senior officers, Ma’am. I am a mere sergeant. Who else would be involved?”

“Ah.” Innocent gives James a direct look. “The concession on your part will be to _take_ those inspector’s exams you’ve been avoiding for so long. The unit will be run by a DCI and a DI, with a team of two sergeants and five constables. Subject obviously to resource needs elsewhere, you can pick your own team.”

Robbie blinks. “Detective Chief Inspector?”

Innocent’s clearly trying to hold back a smile. “Naturally. This role needs to be at that level in order to be effective. Your promotion will be effective immediately on finalising the arrangements – James’s will have to wait until he passes his exams and goes on the required course.”

His brain’s on overdrive. Detective Chief Inspector? He never thought he’d get to Morse’s rank – for years, he was afraid he’d end up retiring as a sergeant. And James as a Detective Inspector, and in a role where they’ll be working almost as equals, rather than governor and bagman? Even signing on to work for an extra five or so years past retirement’s not a problem – not doing something he’ll enjoy, and still working with James. As for the team, well, he’d like to hang on to Bennett, and if he’s not mistaken James is going to want Julie and Gurdip...

“Sir?” By James’s tone, he’s been trying to get Robbie’s attention for a while. He turns his head, signalling apology. “Do we need to think about it, or...?”

He doesn’t need to, and it’s clear that James doesn’t either. “I think we’d be happy to accept, Ma’am.” 

“Yes, indeed,” James agrees, with a level of enthusiasm that’s rare from him. “Thank you.”

“Good.” Innocent nods crisply, signalling that the discussion’s over for now. The two of them stand, turning to leave. “Oh, and Robbie? James?” They pause and look back. “I trust I am invited to the housewarming?”

Robbie shoots a mildly panicked look at James, but his partner doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Naturally, Ma’am. As soon as we have a house to warm, at any rate.”

“Excellent.” She smiles sweetly, in full awareness that she’s just given Robbie kittens, and waves them out of her office.

 

**end**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to everyone who's commented or left kudos on this story - I really appreciate your thoughtfulness very much. And to my long-suffering BR, Lindenharp, much appreciation.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Love Knows Not Its Own Depth by wendymr](https://archiveofourown.org/works/876336) by [fire_juggler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_juggler/pseuds/fire_juggler)




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